My mind wandered. I thought about fate and wondered if there was any reason for why things turn out the way they do. Around 4 A.M., I decided there wasn’t. There’s no finish line, no final payoff. You just keep breathing until your body gives up, and in the meantime, it’s a matter of survival.
And groups like the Crusade for Genetic Purity didn’t make things any easier. What the hell did they know? When it came right down to it, we were all Mutants, genetically or otherwise. What did it matter if someone’s face was covered with radiation scars?
Everyone carries around as much damage as the next guy. A dame with a beautiful face and spotless DNA could be more deeply scarred, emotionally or psychologically, than the most wretched-looking Mutant. We’re all crippled in some way or another.
I thought about Louie LaMintz, the bloated Mutant saint, probably snoring loudly somewhere above his beloved Brew & Stew. I wondered if he ever stood at his window at four in the morning and thought, why? I doubted it. He just got up early every day, fired up the kitchen, and started making everyone’s life a little more enjoyable. Whether it was a story, supper, or running tabs for down-on-their-luck PIs, Louie was the very definition of a good guy. I suddenly wanted to be down there at the Brew & Stew, cozying up to the bar, drinking cold beers, eating something tasty, telling stories.
But the Brew & Stew wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours. I lit another cigarette and poured out three more fingers of bourbon.
UAKM - CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was back at the window overlooking the street when the first rays of sunlight knifed through the blood red sky. Feeling like a voyeur, but glad to see a familiar human being, I stared as Chelsee walked to her newsstand from the direction of the Brew & Stew.
There was no one else on the street, though I could see speeders beginning to dot the sky in the distance, over the new city. I watched as Chelsee opened bundles of newspapers and laid them in neat piles on the counter. Even from across the street, I could see faint clouds of her warm breath. It was an appealing sight.
I ran my bourbon-soaked tongue over my teeth. My breath would probably scare off a pit bull. Down at the newsstand, Chelsee finished arranging her papers and then sat on a high stool with her knees up and hands cupped around a large plastic mug, undoubtedly full of Louie’s panacean coffee.
I glanced at my watch. It was 6:54. I trudged to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and brushed my teeth. Twice. There was a vague sensation in the back of my head like an echo of a hangover. I grabbed a plastic bottle, shook out four aspirin, and took them with water straight from the tap. A little aftershave, and I was good as new.
Chelsee looked up as my clanging footsteps reverberated noisily off the rusty fire escape and ricocheted down the empty, puddle-pocked street. Damn, it was nippy. I crossed to the newsstand where she was huddled over her coffee, soaking up a java-steam facial treatment.
Chelsee Bando was a rare dame - that kind that could hold her own with anyone, as well as turn a man’s knees to jelly. Long, blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, and the kind of voice that curled your toes. Every dope in the neighborhood had the hots for Chelsee, but she seemed to think she was just one of the guys. Unfortunately, she had all those curvy parts to complicate things. On any normal day, I would’ve made polite
conversation, brought up the suggestion that we go out sometime, get shot down, then leave.
After a sleepless night, I didn’t feel up to it. To Chelsee’s amazement, I actually bought a paper, politely thanked her, and headed for Louie’s diner. Safely in the warm belly of the Brew & Stew, I proceeded to fill my veins with steaming caffeine. The diner had a goodsized breakfast crowd, and Louie was bustling around, too busy for idle chitchat. It was just as well. I wasn’t in a verbal mood.
Louie’s television, mounted in the upper right corner behind the bar, was turned on to a morning show, hosted by two wide-eyed “beautiful people.” The program seemed to be a cross between a fourth grade show-and-tell and an infomercial. I was too beat for such mindless joy and turned my attention to the sports section of my newspaper.
I finished the crossword puzzle and my ninth cup of Armageddon a little after eight o’clock. It was late enough, and I was sufficiently wired, so I got up and left the diner.
The interior of my speeder was like an icebox. Ten minutes later, I was cruising over an old part of the city, near Oakland, as rundown an area as the one I lived in. As I flew over the rubble-strewn streets and disintegrating apartment complexes, I had to wonder how much longer the Mutants would put up with the current state of affairs. The war had pretty much obliterated the middle-class. The rich, for the most part Norms, had decided to build the new city and leave the old city in ruins. The only sections they’d cleaned up were the prime ones, along the bay. The Mutants, along with destitute Norms like myself, were left with the scraps.
Melahn Tode’s residence was a nineteenth-century brownstone, the color of a used cigarette filter. Columns rose in front of the building, cracked and stained, like an old man’s fingers. I walked to the front door and saw the word Knickerbocker stenciled over cheap stained glass. Pushing the door open released the odor of rotten wood and ancient dust. The landing was unlit, and the walls and floor were a uniform shade of soil. I glanced at the row of mail slots and saw the name M. Tode listed for apartment eleven.
Three flights of stairs later, I was slightly out of breath, and the stale air wasn’t helping.
I reached number eleven and paused to collect myself before knocking. After several moments, the door opened just enough to reveal a long, shapely leg, a white terry cloth bathrobe, and a cascade of untamed blond hair. Even with only a sliver showing, Melahn Tode was certainly an eyeful. She checked me over thoroughly before saying anything.
“What do you want?”
I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my fake police ID, and held it squarely in front of her light blue eyes.
Melahn looked back at me casually. “What do you want?”
I reached into my pocket and held up the photo of her and the Colonel. I didn’t react as her hand shot out from behind the door and snatched the picture. The sudden movement had pushed the door open halfway. As she examined the photo, I couldn’t help but notice that her robe had loosened some, revealing the center third of an amazingly constructed torso. Only money could buy that kind of sculpture.
Melahn glanced up at me sharply. “Where’d you get this?”
“We found it at the Colonel’s office. He’s missing. We’re pretty sure he’s been murdered. And we’re hoping you know something that will help us in our
investigation.”
Melahn stood as still as a statue for several seconds, then turned away from the door and walked into her apartment. Since she didn’t slam the door, I took it as a cue and followed her in. She crossed the room to a small hutch and poured herself a half glass of something clear. Her hand shook as she took a long drink. It wasn’t water. Melahn turned to me, and I barely detected a throb in her voice. “What happened?”
For some reason, I hadn’t thought about what effect the news of the Colonel’s death would have on a paroled prostitute. Now, staring at Melahn, I felt stupid and uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I should make an attempt to comfort her - which I suddenly wanted to do - or stick to the facts and get through this as quickly as possible. I decided to try and make it as gentle as I could.
“He was abducted from his office. It may have had something to do with one of the cases he was working on.”
Cradling her drink in both hands, Melahn sat down on a wicker chair and stared miserably at the floor. “He said he wasn’t going to take any more cases. He said he was done with all that.” Melahn looked up at me and took another drink of stabilizing fluid.
“We were going away together…at the end of the month. He was going to retire…and we were…”
Without looking at me, Melahn sprang up and bolted from the room. I watched her leave and decided I needed
to smoke. An ashtray with several cigarette butts in it sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, so I figured it would be OK.
I’d almost finished my cigarette when Melahn came back into the room. Even with no makeup and red, puffy eyes, she was beautiful. The body, the face…but there was more to it than that. I’d never been a good judge of female character - my wife had sworn to that under oath in divorce court - but something indefinable about Melahn told me that there was a good deal more to her than I, or maybe anyone else, had first thought. The Colonel must’ve seen whatever it was she had. Maybe he’d met her through one of his cases and helped her back on her feet. He’d always been smarter than I was.
But now he was dead, and I wasn’t. Melahn sat back down on the wicker chair and buried her nose in a tissue as I stubbed out my Lucky Strike. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Melahn shook her head. I looked at her, knowing that I needed her to talk to me, but not sure how, or if the subject should be broached. Luckily, she took a shaky breath and looked over at me. “Sorry, I haven’t cried in years.”
I nodded. She dabbed her nose and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. After a moment, she glanced at me. “You’re not a cop.”
I paused and thought it over, then shook my head. “No, I’m not. I’m a PI…and an old friend of the Colonel’s.”
Melahn nodded. After a few seconds, she straightened up and pulled her robe tight.
“What do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “Anything. I’m just trying to find out who would’ve killed him.”
“I can’t help you. Roy never talked about his work. And we’d only been seeing each other for a few months. I knew him, but not about the other things in his life.” She raised the tissue to her nose, then folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t look like a hooker.
“That was the way he wanted it. He said we were starting over, together. We didn’t talk about other things.”
A wave of disappointment washed over me. I didn’t want to be insensitive, but I’d been hoping that Melahn could help. Apparently, she couldn’t. I believed what she was telling me, as much as I didn’t want to hear it.
“Tell me, Melahn, is there anything you can think of…anything…Roy…said during the past few times you saw him?”
Melahn’s eyes focused on the floor thoughtfully. After some time, she shook her head.
“No.”
I looked up at the ceiling. Maybe I was asking the wrong questions. “Do you remember him saying anything about CAPRICORN?”
Melahn’s head moved slowly from side to side.
“How about something called the Winter Chip?”
“No.”
Melahn stared back at me, her eyes were starting to brim again as she said, “I’m sorry.”
I was sorry too, and for more than one reason. I stood up and walked to where she was sitting. She looked up as I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me too. I’m sorry about what happened, and I’m sorry I had to tell you.”
I reached into the inner pocket of my overcoat. All I could find was a cash register receipt. I wrote on the back of it, then handed it to Melahn. “Here’s my name and my number. If you can think of anything, or if I can help in any way at all, give me a ring.”
Melahn nodded. I felt like dirt and really wanted to get home and shower. There was probably something I should have said, but I couldn’t think of anything constructive. I put on my hat and walked to the door.
“Wait.”
I turned around, and Melahn stood up. “Roy left some things here. You can see them if you think it’ll help.”
I crossed the room and followed Melahn into her bedroom. She looked into a closet and several drawers and laid a handful of items on the bed. There was a hardback novel, which I flipped through and found nothing in, a pair of cheap reading glasses, a tartan vest, two shirts, a pair of khaki trousers, and a half dozen boxer shorts. I didn’t bother to search the undies, and the shirts and pants turned up nothing. I’d just about decided that I’d hit a dead end when I checked the watch pocket of the vest. Inside was a notebook, about two by three inches. I held it up. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Melahn shook her head and began to gather up the items as I left the room. I reached the door and glanced back. She had sat down on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. I turned and closed the door quietly behind me.
As I walked down the stairs, I flipped through the notebook. Something fluttered out and dropped to the floor. It was a clipping from a newspaper, folded up. As I opened it, a picture in the center caught my eye. It was a photo of the countess’s statuette.
UAKM
Chapter Twelve
I checked my watch as I left the Knickerbocker building. It was just after 9am. I’d been up for almost a day and a half, and it felt more like 21 o’clock… p.m. Louie’s coffee had sobered me up, and now I needed another drink.
I lifted off and headed for the nearest bar. Why did the Colonel have a photo of the statuette? Suddenly, his disappearance was connected to the bogus Countess. When I’d been in the Police Commissioner’s office, I honestly hadn’t thought I was even remotely involved in the Colonel’s murder, but now I was starting to think maybe I was. But how?
I needed bourbon and time to meditate. I glanced down at the street below and caught sight of a sign: The Gaslight Lounge. The open sign was lit up, and I still had $40 in my wallet. The Gaslight Lounge looked like just the kind of dive a destitute PI would waste the last of his cash in.
It was dark and stinky inside-a perfect place to think and drink when one’s biological clock is on the fritz. I ordered a serving of Old Grand-Dad with a sidecar from a bartender named Denny and carried the Papa glass and the Baby glass to a circular booth in the corner. The malt was cheap, but adequate, all things considered. As the harsh, caramelly taste ran down my throat and blazed a trail into my stomach, I pulled out the newspaper clipping and examined it.
The article said that a daring heist had been pulled off in a museum in Berlin. The only item stolen was the statuette shown in the photo. The article went on to say that the statuette had only recently been unearthed while renovating an old section of the city.
There was no date shown anywhere on the clipping.
I took another sip of Old Grand-Dad and closed my eyes. My brain was filled with puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together. The first piece was the Colonel stopping by my office for no apparent reason. Then there was the call from that “Countess”. She hires me to find this statuette, claiming that it’s an old family heirloom that had been stolen from her. Of course, she’s lying, but I don’t know it at the time. I take the job, find out about Eddie Ching, and follow his trail to Mexico City. I find out that he’s in some sort of illegal exporting business, but how the statuette got from the museum in Berlin to Ching’s apartment is a complete mystery. Regardless, I get the statuette, but it’s stolen from me in Brownsville. All indications point to me being set up and followed.
According to the police, the Colonel disappeared about the same time I left town, and the newspaper clipping in the notebook shows that he probably knew about the statuette before I did.
Now, for the questions: How, if at all, was the statuette connected to the abduction of the Colonel? Were the people who set me up and jumped me the same people who
kidnapped, and possibly killed, the Colonel? How did Eddie Ching fit into the picture?
Why did everyone want to get their hands on the statuette?
Maybe I could find some answers in the Colonel’s notebook. I opened it, half-expecting to see a comprehensive listing of women’s names, addresses, phone numbers, and vital statistics. Not that that would have been necessarily bad. The Colonel had always had good taste with regard to the fairer sex. But my suspicions were unfounded. As I flipped through, I saw everything from Freudian doodles to grocery lists, but nothing noteworthy.
Then, close to the end of the used pages, I ran across something that reminded me of the
mysterious index card I’d received in the Mail. The Colonel had jotted down a series of letters and numbers: BCM1206428X8. But this was the Colonel’s personal notepad.
Why would he use a coded message to himself? It had to mean something.
The code was too long for a licence plate or vid-phone number. I looked it over for several minutes, then noticed something interesting. If I inserted two spaces and two slashes, I got BCM 12/06/42 8X8. I checked the date on my watch. December 8. And the last time I checked, it was 2042. The centre part of the code was 12/06/42. It had to be a date… the day before yesterday.
I poured the contents of my sidecar into the larger class. BCM, BCM. The letters seemed somehow familiar. I lifted a glass of bourbon. Three booths away, I saw a tiny, elderly grandmother-type reading a newspaper. The Bay City Mirror. BCM.
I looked down at the notebook. Bay City Mirror, 6th December, 2042. It had to be the answer. But what was the 8X8? Maybe it referred to an article on page eight, in the eighth column. I thought it over four minutes, then decided not to worry about it for the time being. The bottom line was, there might be a message of some kind contained in the newspaper from two days ago.
Now, where to get one? The public library kept them. I started to gather up my things, then stopped. Maybe there was one here at the Lounge. It was worth a try. I sidled up to where Denny the Bartender was standing behind the bar, applying a lemon wedge to the rim of a glass containing some sort of sissified cocktail.
Denny glanced up at me blandly. “Help ya?”
“Another Old Grand-Dad please. Straight up.”
Denny nodded and had a tumbler in front of me momentarily. He didn’t seem overly friendly, so I handed him a ten. “Keep the change.”
Denny raised an eyebrow and gave me a reassessing look. Apparently I didn’t look like a tipper. “Thanks.” He opened a register and deposited the ten, pulled out a five, and dropped it into a big glass jar, then turned back to me.
Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 Page 10