But somehow I didn’t think that excuse was going to fly with the cops. Detective Reed was watching me, waiting for me to speak. I opened my mouth to demand a lawyer when the door to the interrogation room opened and a man built like a tank strode into the room.
“Miles,” he said, grinning, “I knew we’d get your ass one day.”
My mouth was already aching from all these forced smiles, but I pretended to be happy to see Detective Todd. A few years back he’d got me out of the clutches of a crooked cop who liked me for a weapons-smuggling charge, and managed to get me set loose with a rap across the knuckles for a minor Tunneling-related charge.
Walter Todd pulled out a chair from the table, spun it around, and sat on it backward with his arms folded over the chair back. With his gray-streaked hair and his faded leather jacket, he looked like something out of a 70s cop show. A cigarette dangled from his lips, filling the room with smoke and probably breaking a bunch of healthy workplace regulations, but he didn’t seem too concerned.
Detective Reed glanced at him, her face a mask, then returned her icy stare to me. I ignored her, choosing to focus on the friendlier cop. “Seems like you could find better asses than mine, Walt. I saw the hookers you guys had cuffed out in holding.”
Todd winked at me and pulled my file away from Detective Reed. “Pretty impressive pile, don’t you think, Vivian? Have you told him yet?”
“Told me what?” I asked.
Their demeanor was making me shifty. The good-cop, bad-cop thing was standard, but I still couldn’t work out what I was doing here. The time on my watch said it was just after 9 p.m., so it was probably closer to midnight. Why the hell had they bothered to bring me into the interrogation room now, instead of letting me kick up my heels in a cell for the night? Chances were the Vei family I’d smuggled in had already been deported, and it wasn’t exactly murder they were trying to get me to confess to. Vei-smugglers never did serious jail time. Why all the effort?
“We want to talk to you about Ink,” Detective Reed said.
Aw, hell. A fresh wave of sweat broke out across my forehead, and I could swear I felt my blood pressure ratchet up a few notches.
I couldn’t go to prison. It wasn’t the criminals that scared me. It was the walls. The bars. Christ, I couldn’t live in a box.
If they were going to try to pin an Ink smuggling charge on me, I was screwed. Ink was a nasty drug, as expensive as it was addictive. It was like heroin with a dash of methamphetamine, something that drowned your mind in black while making you wild as a pissed-off baboon. As the bread-and-butter of the drug trade in Bluegate, it made a lot of wallets thicker, and not just the gang members’.
“Look,” I said, cringing at the panic in my voice, “I don’t touch Ink, all right? Too many risks.”
“Does he look like a risk-taker to you, Vivian?” Todd asked.
“He sure does. You’re sweating, Mr. Franco.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, and Detective Reed smirked at me like I’d just signed my confession.
“You’ve got to be bullshitting me,” I said. “That’s why you had me brought in here? Look at my record, damn it. There’s not one Ink-smuggling charge on there. It’s not my style!”
Todd chuckled. He seemed amused by my bug-eyed stare, the bastard. “Calm down, Miles. I’ve seen pigeons that are tougher to spook than you. We’re not here to bust you.”
“You already busted me once tonight,” said. “Sorry if I don’t take you at your goddamn word.”
Detective Reed tapped her fingers on the table in an annoyed gesture. For some reason, I noted she didn’t wear a wedding ring. “Mr. Franco—”
“Just call me Miles, will you? This ‘Mr. Franco’ thing is getting annoying.”
“Mr. Franco,” she said again, with a touch of vindictiveness in the words, “Does the name Doctor Dee mean anything to you?”
“My doctor’s name is Roberts, and he got struck off for some dodgy organ trading scheme. Cheap, though.”
Nervousness was making me babble, and I wasn’t particularly keen to hurry this conversation along. It was never good when a cop asked you questions like that. It meant they wanted something. I’d seen plenty of pictures in the newspapers of police informants floating in the river, and I could almost guarantee all of them had started their snitching careers with a conversation like this.
“We got a handful of references to this Doctor Dee in drug busts we pulled off these last couple of weeks,” Todd said. He stroked his clean-shaven chin as he talked, a habit he’d had as long as I’d known him. “Seems he’s been offering jobs to a couple of the local dealers if they defect from their own gangs. The ones we got to before they were snuffed out said there’s a new product hitting the streets soon.”
“So?” I said. “There’s a new variation of Ink every few years. There’s always some chemist tweaking it.”
Todd shook his head. “This is more than a tweak, Miles.”
“Chroma, they’ve been calling it,” Reed said. “We haven’t got our hands on a sample yet, but word is it’s powerful. Really powerful. Gang violence is already up. If this thing is what they say it is, there’s going to be war in the streets over the supply and distribution.”
I didn’t know how they could tell when there was more violence in the city; it’d be like trying to find a flaming marshmallow in the middle of a forest fire. But right then, that wasn’t my main concern.
“All right, I get the idea, and I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this. I’m leaving.”
I stood up, and so did Detective Todd. “Easy, Miles. We’re offering you a chance to get out of this mess you’re in.”
“You’re the ones who got me in this mess in the first place.” I’d driven right out of nervous a few miles back and now I was accelerating into angry territory. I wouldn’t let them lock me up. “A dozen Vei come into Bluegate illegally every day and you guys have never given a damn about it before. This is a goddamn set up.”
“Calm down, Mr. Franco,” Vivian Bloody Reed said.
She probably knew saying that would just wind me up more. “To hell with that, I’m pissed, and you’d better get used to it.”
They didn’t get used to it. Todd reached across the table with an arm the size of my thigh and shoved me back down into my seat. For a second it felt like a small building had fallen on my shoulders, but then the pressure was gone, and Todd was back on his side of the table.
The rage dulled slightly as the rational part of my brain reminded me about not being a smartass. I was neither tall nor well-built, and Todd could divide me into several pieces with his bare hands if he chose. I forced myself to silence and sat still like a good little boy. Christ, there wasn’t even a window in this room.
“That’s better,” Detective Reed said. “All we want you to do is consult on the case. You do a good job, and all this…” She pushed my file to the side of the table. “…all this goes away. We’ll drop the charges from today. If you’re lucky, you might even get paid.” I scowled, but she continued anyway. “Our best chance of tracking down this Doctor Dee and find out where he’s going to bring in the Chroma is to hit his distribution network. Which means—”
“Tunnels,” I finished. Ink—and most likely this Chroma—couldn’t be made on Earth. Our reality was too stable, and Ink was just too damn crazy. It was a Vei drug, though it had hit the human drug market hard, just as alcohol had hit theirs. So that meant this Doctor Dee would be bringing his Chroma in from Heaven.
It wasn’t the actual Heaven, of course, the one with angels and pearly gates and long lists of who’d been naughty and much shorter lists of who’d been nice. The name had been coined by some wiseass soldier in the first exploratory team. Then the media got hold of it, and the name stuck.
The soldier must’ve been being sarcastic when he named it. Heaven was a truly messed up place, the kind of place that drives men mad. Reality wasn’t stable there, and everything wa
s malleable. Entire textbooks had tried to describe Heaven, and I’d yet to read one that even came close.
Still, for me, the name fit. There was nothing like the freedom of being in a place where even the laws of physics weren’t enforced.
But why in the seven hells did the cops want me on this? They’d gone to a hell of a lot of effort to bring me in. I was surprised they didn’t go one step further and stick a dog leash round my neck. The Police Department had their own Tunnelers, upstanding men of the finest caliber, not lowly freelancers like me. Why did they feel the need to dredge me up from the gutters?
Detective Reed must have seen the look on my face. “Truth is, we’ve run into a brick wall on this, Miles. Even our informants have gone quiet. You’ve got contacts in the Vei community, and most of the freelance Tunnelers out there are no more than drug trafficking scum. Todd tells me you’re different. He vouched for you.”
“That’s the kind of gift I can do without, Walt. Next time, just send me a box of wine.”
Todd shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Your choice, Miles. I got a nice pair of handcuffs ready for you if you don’t want the job. But I warn you, them animals tonight are a wild bunch.” He jerked his thumb toward the door, back to the cells where the drunk and stoned waited to be processed. “Someone forgot to feed them and they’re a bit cranky.”
Being backed into a corner didn’t sit well with me. My palms grew moist as I chewed over the options in my head, as if I hadn’t already made my decision. I didn’t much like getting told what to do, but being stuck in a cage, well, that’d snap my mind clean in two. Plus, I had a feeling they wouldn’t allow much Tunneling in prison.
I sighed. “Christ. Let me get some shut-eye, and we can start tomorrow.”
The detectives got to their feet, and I followed suit. Todd grinned again and slapped me on the shoulder with a hand that could pass as a bear’s paw.
“Sorry Miles, no such luck. We start tonight. Go home, get changed, and be back here in an hour. We got work to do.”
I bit my tongue to keep from yelling. I hated cops.
CHAPTER TWO
The two detectives made me wait in the interrogation room while they got my paperwork together. I brooded as I sat in the dark, claustrophobic room, then took to giving evil glares to the reflective one-way glass on the off chance one of them was watching me. I’d just taken to pacing the room when Detective Reed finally returned and allowed me to go.
The walk of shame through the police station was slightly less demeaning this time, mainly due to the lack of handcuffs. The hookers were still sitting in holding, the harsh light showcasing every wrinkle and faded bruise. They made screeching cat-calls as Detective Reed and I went past, but I didn’t respond. My job sees me walking the darker streets of Bluegate a lot, and I wasn’t keen to antagonize any more people than I had to.
Detective Reed didn’t talk to me, which suited me fine. The pantsuit she was wearing was strangely alluring, and I had to keep a tight rein on myself to keep my gaze from slipping to the hint of cleavage that appeared above her purple V-necked shirt. Sure, beautiful women scare me, but I was still a man, and one in the middle of a dry spell the size of the Sahara desert. Detective Reed didn’t appear to take any notice of my glances, which was probably for the best.
We stopped in front of an overweight uniformed cop sitting behind a plate glass window, the one who had taken my things when I’d gone through processing.
“Miles Franco,” Detective Reed said to the man. “Give him his stuff back.”
The cop swiveled around in his chair without looking at me and shuffled through several paper bags. He finally reemerged with a grunt and a bag with ‘Myles Falco’ scrawled on it in black ink. Goddamn cops. They really needed to up their admission standards.
“Wallet,” he said, pulling it from the bag and sliding it beneath his window to me. “Key ring with three keys. Cell phone. Folding knife.” I pocketed the knife before he could have second thoughts and confiscate it. It was a good knife, with a carbon steel blade about five and a half inches long. It was a tool, not a weapon, but I could see the disapproval spreading across Detective Reed’s face.
The cop started to scrunch the bag up and throw it away, but I spoke up. “I had some coins.”
The cop frowned at me as if I was deliberately trying to make trouble. “Bag’s empty. Check your wallet.”
My wallet was as empty as it always was. It was more for show than anything. “I need my coins.”
Detective Reed checked her watch and made an irritated noise. “Check the shelf again, Will. This one’s stubborn.”
The cop scowled but did as he was told, hefting his considerable weight off the office chair. He disappeared beneath the desk for a few seconds. I could hear him shuffling around, and he finally reemerged with a handful of silver coins.
He tossed them toward me then slapped a clipboard with a release form down in front of me. “Sign.”
I scrawled my name before I could make any more enemies and snatched the five coins from the desk. They settled comfortably into my pockets, and my hands stopped shaking quite so much.
“A uniform will give you a ride home,” Detective Reed said as she led me toward the front doors of the station. “You can find your own way back here?”
I nodded. Anything to not have more cops loitering outside my apartment waiting for me to get ready.
Detective Reed returned my nod and strode back the way we had come. I spent a couple of distracted seconds admiring the way her hips slid from side to side, then kicked myself out of it. Hell, I had more important things to be thinking about right now.
I shoved open the doors to the station and stepped out into the night. The cold air kept the smog smell out of it, which made breathing a little more bearable. You spend long enough in a city breathing car fumes and industrial smoke and soon enough you’re wondering where your sense of taste went.
The street was well-lit for Bluegate. Streetlights cast an orange glow onto the street and the drab concrete buildings. Occasionally, cars trundled past the station, probably containing married men off to visit their mistresses or gangsters on their way to rough up a troublesome drug dealer. Call me jaded, but some days it seemed like everyone in this city was one brand of immoral or other. Hell, I was no exception.
The police station was just to the east of the city center, in between the territories of the Gravediggers, the 23rd Street Bikers, and the Andrews Family. This was an older part of town, from back when Bluegate was called Garanade. A horrible name for a horrible town.
The cop Detective Reed had promised me was waiting at the bottom of the stone stairs leading out of the station, leaning against his squad car. He was a lanky kid who looked about thirteen, with a mop of blond hair and a uniform that was too short for him. He held up his hand in greeting as I approached and gestured to the back seat. “Can’t let you ride up front, sorry. Rules, and all that.”
I didn’t mind. At least the kid seemed friendly enough. I’d give him six months before he was as calloused as the rest of them.
My apartment was on the other side of Central Bluegate, about a fifteen-minute drive if the traffic wasn’t too bad. Most people tend to stay off the streets after dark in Bluegate, so we had the road almost to ourselves.
The young cop tried to engage me in conversation once or twice, but when I responded mostly with one-word answers, he gave up. I was still in a brooding mood, and I wasn’t going to let any cheerful conversation spoil that. I had to find a way out of this pit of snakes I’d been dropped in. Like hell I was going to trust the Bluegate PD to be looking out for my best interests. Something fishy was going on, something they weren’t telling me. Goddamn cops were like that.
I’d tried to keep out of gang business for my entire freelancing career. It wasn’t easy, when skilled Tunnelers are a key part of any good drug smuggling business. I’d been offered piles of cash for my services, and I’d been given more than a few lumps on my head
as an incentive to consider taking up a career within their fine institutions. But I tend to be a stubborn son of a bitch when I get backed up against the wall. I don’t much like being told what to do. But that wasn’t why I stayed freelance. Tunnelers who threw in their loyalties with either a gang or the cops tend to have a short life span. I happened to be rather fond of living.
The cop flicked on the radio to some easy-listening jazz as we ambled through the seedier streets. Prostitutes stood smoking on the footpaths, half-hidden by the shadow, cheap decorations for the closely packed slums behind them. I caught a few glimpses of pimps and drug dealers further back in the alleys, and expensive cars pulling up then speeding away with a vial of Ink or a half-dressed woman. Strolling down these streets at night was akin to suicide unless you were in good with the gangsters, and even then you’d better hope you backed the right gangs. Most people played it safe, fixing padlocks to their doors and praying this winter wouldn’t be as cold as the last.
I leaned back in the seat and tried to take my eyes off the scenery. It was easy to get jaded in a city like this. I’d lived there most of my life, bar an unfortunate attempt at making a new start in Corton, the next city along the North River. I’m not a masochist. I didn’t stay for the fun. I stayed because it’s the only place I can Tunnel.
The cop drove the car along the top of a sweeping hill that overlooked the river and the bay to the west, and I could see the reason I stayed in glimpses between the buildings we passed. A series of huge, glowing concentric circles, 600 feet across, hovered a few inches above the surface of Tunnel River. It cast an eerie blue glow onto the platforms and buildings that had been built out around it, bright enough to be seen despite the city lights. Even at this late hour, the platforms around it were swarming with machinery and people, moving equipment and vehicles back and forth from the circles.
The Man Who Couldn't Be Bought (A Miles Franco Short Story) Page 4