by Eric Brown
‘Christ, it’s been ten years and then you call at damned near midnight.’
He wanted to correct him. Six years at the most, and it was not yet eleven-thirty.
‘I’m sorry. I knew you’d be up. I was working, and . . .’
‘I was reading, Hal. You know I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m reading.’
Halliday paused. A part of him wanted simply to cut the connection. ‘Aren’t you going to open the visual link?’
He heard a sigh. A pause. Then the screen flickered and showed a thin-faced, steel-haired man in his seventies, sitting severely upright as if the maintenance of posture was the sole guarantee of increased longevity.
‘What do you want, Hal?’
He stared at the old man. ‘Have you seen Sue lately? Has she been in contact?’
‘Sue? I haven’t seen her for years. Is she still. . .?’ He stopped himself, as if belatedly realising the stupidity of the question. Instead he said, ‘Neither of you has bothered to call for years, never mind visit.’
Little wonder, Halliday thought. You were so eager to get rid of us, and before that to demean us, our choices, our endeavours.
‘Dad, I want to talk about Eloise.’
Something closed in the old man’s face: the grudging willingness there had been to grant his only son a few minutes of his precious time was suddenly withdrawn.
‘If that’s what you called me for, I’ll sign off.’
‘No! Please ... I need to know what happened.’
‘You can’t understand how painful I find the episode, Hal, or you wouldn’t have bothered calling. Goodbye.’ He reached forward, quickly, and cut the connection.
Halliday sat back in the chair, staring at the dead screen. He found his coffee and held it in both hands. He wondered whether to try and contact Sue, and smiled to himself. What a beautiful irony it was that he was in the business of locating missing persons, and every time he had tried to find his sister during the past five years or so he had drawn a blank. Perhaps, he thought, something in his subconscious had not allowed him to try hard enough.
He pulled the keyboard towards him, opened a new file, and began the official report for Jeff Simmons on the events of the night before.
* * * *
Six
Barney woke late, showered, then stood in the doorway of his bedroom and stared into the office.
The only changes he’d made to the place over the years was to move the furniture here and there, on Kim’s instructions. The carpet had come with the office when he began renting eight years ago, mould-green and threadbare and probably as old as the century. The walls were stained with the smoke of his cigars, and could use a coat of paint. In general, the place had the run-down appearance of the manager’s office in a fifty-dollar flop-house.
He’d always rationalised his disinclination to get the place decorated with the argument that, if customers used a detective agency in El Barrio, then they were unlikely to be put off by the appearance of the office. But the area was moving up-market. Some of the tenements nearby had been redeveloped, knocked into expensive apartments for work-from-home executives in the computer industry. Maybe, when this case was through, he’d talk to Hal about getting the room fixed up, see what he felt.
He made himself a coffee, then had a better thought. What the hell, he’d shown discipline over the past week, kept off the beers and watched his diet. He needed a proper breakfast. He’d go to Olga’s, take some needles with him and work on the ancient machine Olga kept behind the bar.
He took a copy of the report Hal had made, the diaries of Sissi Nigeria - and the needle Lew had given him when he’d emerged, dazed, from the jellytank yesterday.
He locked the office and walked along the block. Olga’s was a cellar bar with the finest stock of imported beers in the district. Barney ordered a Ukrainian wheat, a ham on rye with gherkin, and hauled the old Sony to his booth beneath the street-level window. The bar was warm after the chill outside; a TV in the corner relayed a west coast ballgame, the sound turned low. He thought again about going to the expense of having the office redecorated - he’d see what Hal thought about moving the business to Olga’s back room.
For the next couple of hours he scrolled through Sissi Nigeria’s diaries, coming to some understanding of who the woman was, but none at all as to what might have happened to her. She was some kind of high-flying technician working for Cyber-Tech, one of Mantoni Entertainment’s rivals in the VR business. She mentioned her work in passing, and then not so much her work as her colleagues. The diaries were taken up with detailed and graphic accounts of her affairs with the various women she picked up at the Scumbar, as well as her life with her live-in, as Nigeria called Carrie Villeux. It was a lifestyle alien to Barney’s old-fashioned sensibilities, but who the hell was he to knock it? There had to be advantages to sharing love, and sex, with more than one person. Christ, it was all very well being with one person for all your adult life, but it was hell when they were no longer around. He shut out that line of thought, took a long swallow of beer and started into his sandwich.
He read through Hal’s report as he ate. It was as exhaustive as ever, filled with details that might have no bearing on the case, but then again might prove vital. Barney recalled thinking the other day that the case would come to nothing, a lover’s row ending in Nigeria’s walking out for a few days. But the diaries made no mention of any argument with Villeux, and what had happened to Hal the night before last indicated that something serious was going down.
Trouble was, they were getting nowhere fast. There were no leads, no clues as to what had happened to Nigeria, why her console at the apartment was fused, why the Latino had wanted Hal dead. They needed a break, some information from someone that might open up an avenue of inquiry. Later, he’d go down to Greenwich, poke about the Solano place, talk to people there and see if he could come up with something.
He came to the end of Hal’s report and ordered another beer. He finished the sandwich, thought about another one. He showed willpower. If he limited himself to one, and a couple of beers, he could do breakfast here again tomorrow. He lit up the butt of his cigar and sorted through the needles he’d brought with him.
Only the one from Lew remained.
He’d been surprised, on emerging from the jellytank yesterday, when Lew passed him the needle. ‘Thought you might like this as a keepsake of your first meeting in VR,’ he’d said.
Barney had taken the needle. ‘You were watching?’
‘Only to the point where you entered the villa.’
So Barney had taken the needle, troubled by the thought that, no doubt, a copy of what had passed between Estelle and himself existed somewhere on Mantoni files.
Now, almost reluctantly, he slipped the needle into the port of the Sony and waited apprehensively for the image to appear on the screen. He wondered what Hal would say if he knew that his cynical, hard-bitten partner was meeting Estelle’s ghost in virtual reality. Would he understand that after so many years he needed someone and that some computer-generated simulacrum of Estelle was better than any real woman, who anyway never lived up to his memory of Estelle? Perhaps Hal would have said that he needed to get out and meet more women, and try not to make the inevitable comparison . . . and perhaps Barney agreed, which was why he felt guilty.
But, dammit, his experience in VR yesterday had been so damned wonderful.
The needle kicked in, and the screen was flooded with colour. The bountiful garden, the blurred haze of flowers, sunlight, the emerald lawn. The viewpoint angle - what would have been the camera angle, if a camera had recorded this - seemed to be from the villa, looking down the length of the garden. Barney watched himself appear on the lawn in an instant, a slimmer, younger version of himself. He walked towards the bower as he recalled doing, and then turned to face the villa. He hurried forward, almost stumbling, and reached out.
Estelle walked from the villa and into view, seeming to glow with vitality, an ersatz life invented
by the technicians at Mantoni, but which had seemed wholly real to Barney yesterday. They touched hands, and now Barney recalled the warmth of her skin. He watched them walk into the villa, the viewpoint following them into a front room, where they sat and talked.
At least as amazing as the physical reality of his wife was her psychological similarity to the woman he had loved for thirty-five years. Over a period of four weeks, Lew and his team had compiled a comprehensive dossier of Estelle’s personality, her views, preferences, passions and pet-hatreds. Lew had questioned Barney about his marriage, cataloguing his recollection of events: with this information he had invested the ersatz Estelle with a memory of their time together.
They had talked for an hour, and it was as if he had been transported back in time. This was the Estelle he recalled from almost twenty years ago. He could detect no flaw, no glitch or error, either physically or in her personality. He had told himself again and again that this was not a real person, not his wife, but the evidence of his senses overruled his knowledge of the fact.
Something had made him ask, ‘Where are we, Estelle? Do you know?’
She had stared at him. ‘Of course - don’t you remember? It was your idea to move to California, Barney!’
And he had marvelled at Lew’s ingenuity. He had often talked with Estelle of leaving New York and moving west, and ten years ago they almost had. But Estelle had gained a promotion in her job and they’d decided to remain.
Now, he was experiencing the virtual reality of what might have happened, had they moved.
‘We’ll spend our retirement walking along the beach,’ Estelle had said, ‘dining at expensive restaurants . . .’
He had not intended for the meeting to escalate into intimacy. It was enough that they be together, share their memories. But something, the look in her eyes, had made it inevitable.
Now he watched as the younger version of himself reached for Estelle. They kissed, and she took him by the hand and led him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Now Barney recalled the feelings he had experienced as they fell onto the bed and came together, like the very first time, all over again.
He quickly halted the program. It was enough that the events of the following hour lived on in his memory.
When he’d emerged from the jellytank, Lew had told him that as payment for his time, for allowing the team to reproduce Estelle in VR, he would be allowed one hour a week with her in their Californian retreat.
He told himself that he was not abandoning reality, merely that this was another form of entertainment, that he would be a happier person because of it ... He could hardly wait until his next session in the jellytank.
The door opened, admitting a cold wind, and footsteps clattered on the stairs. Barney looked up. Casey, the pale scrawny refugee Kim employed on one of her stalls, swung around the corner of his booth, swaddled in the soiled pink climbing jacket Kim had cast off months ago.
‘You got customers, Barney. They asked me if I knew where Kluger and Halliday’s was. Two big mean-looking guys in a swish car, parked outside the laundry.’
Barney returned the Sony to the bar, slipped Casey five dollars and followed her up to the street. The car was the latest model Lincoln, a big maroon Delta, and Barney made out two heavies inside. He climbed the stairs to the office and settled himself behind the desk.
He didn’t like the look of the guys in the Lincoln. Something about the combination - two rough-looking dudes in an expensive Delta - turned his thoughts to petty criminals made good, thugs into extortion and protection rackets. He found himself wishing that Hal was around.
The desk-com flared, and the dollar sign in the top right corner began to flash. The screen showed the staircase leading up to the office. The two guys walked up the stairs as if they meant business, one behind the other because they were too wide to walk side by side.
One guy was short and white, built like a wrestler, with a crew-cut and a face that had taken constant punishment over the years, and had come back for more. The second guy was tall and black, and just as mean-looking.
The white guy rapped on the pebbled glass and pushed open the door without waiting to be invited . . . and at that second the screen decided to go belly up. The image of the heavies advancing down the room flickered and died. Barney reached out and switched off the screen, hoping that the malfunction wouldn’t affect the computer’s recording of the meeting.
He was reassured by the weight of his automatic, nestling beneath his jacket.
He remained seated, staring at the men as they stood before the desk. The black guy seated himself and crossed his legs, smiling at Barney in silence.
The white guy remained standing, unsmiling.
‘Barney Kluger. How can I be of assistance, gentlemen?’
He looked from the white guy to the black, who widened his smile and gestured at his standing partner. ‘Mr Culaski does the talking,’ he said, breathing on a couple of chunky gold rings the size of knuckledusters.
Barney nodded. ‘So, Mr Culaski. . .?’
The white guy stared at Barney. ‘How long have you been in this line of business, Mr Kluger?’ His voice was like his face, ugly and well used.
Barney played along. This was not going to be your regular consultation, he knew. There was a canister of freeze in the bottom drawer of the desk . . . but would he be quick enough to get to it if things turned nasty?
‘Let’s think about this,’ he said. ‘The old brain, you know? Plays tricks when you reach my age. I’d say about eight years, come spring.’
‘And how is business, Mr Kluger?’
‘We’re doing okay, all things considered. You know, we can’t complain. Cases come in, we work on them, get the job done.’
‘And what would you say is your success rate?’
What was this? Barney wondered. ‘Seventy, eighty per cent,’ he lied. Who was counting?
Culaski nodded, taking in the greasy carpet, the nicotine-stained walls. ‘You specialise in missing persons, right?’
‘You’ve obviously done your homework. But we aren’t a one-string outfit, Mr Culaski. We also do surveillance, security, the usual investigations.’
‘Versatility, Inc,’ the guy said in a tone of voice just short of mocking.
‘We try to do our best,’ Barney said. ‘Most of our customers are satisfied with our work.’
Culaski nodded. He looked at his partner, who smiled. ‘I’m sure they are,’ Culaski said.
Barney cleared his throat. ‘Ah . . . just how might I be of help, gentlemen?’
Culaski moved. He walked to the wall and leaned his stocky body against the paintwork. Barney watched him, aware that he was now unable to see the seated guy. The effect was unnerving.
Culaski examined his bitten finger-nails. ‘I understand you’re working on the Nigeria case, Kluger?’
Barney tried not to show his surprise. ‘I’m not in a position to discuss the confidential commissions of other clients,’ he said.
Culaski looked him straight in the eye. ‘Listen, Kluger. If you’re on the case I’d advise you to drop it, pretty-fucking-pronto, okay?’
Barney picked the last inch of an old cigar from the ash tray, examined its condition, and fitted it into the corner of his mouth. He busied himself with the careful process of re-igniting the butt.
He blew out a billow of noxious smoke and smiled across at Culaski. ‘You would, would you?’
The man’s eyes were as hard as jet flints. ‘It’d be in the best interests of your agency,’ he said.
‘Tell me, Culaski, just what is your interest in the Nigeria case?’
‘Me and my partner here . . .’ he indicated the black guy, ‘. . . we represent an agency working on behalf of a rich client, a friend of Nigeria’s, who hired us to locate her. We don’t want no fifth-rate competition from pissant agencies like yours, Kluger.’
‘If we’re as fifth-rate as you claim,’ Barney pointed out, ‘then we’ll be no competition, surely?’
Barney tried not to let his anger show. ‘How long has your agency been up and running, Culaski? A week, two? Have you ever read the New York City charter covering agencies dealing with private investigations? You might be interested in Clause 55, the line about the non-exclusivity of cases. If you haven’t, Culaski, it states that the investigation of no crime committed in the city is the exclusive province of one agency or investigating body, not even the New York police. In other words, we’re working on the case and it’s tough shit on you and your agency.’
Culaski glanced across at his taciturn partner, who was gazing at his rings. ‘You don’t seem to understand what I’m saying, Kluger. It’d be in your best interests if you dropped the Nigeria case, okay?’