The Man Who Couldn't Be Bought (A Miles Franco Short Story)

by Chris Strange

  He went silent for a moment. “On her own?”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me helping her.”

  “Is she…?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. Kids are hard these days.”

  “She needs someone to teach her,” Desmond said.

  “Yeah.”

  He paused again, and I could practically hear his sleepy brain connecting the dots. “You bastard. You’re not getting me to do your work that easy.”

  “I’m out the door, Des. If I’m not back in a few days, you might want to drop by, make sure she hasn’t blown her own head off.”

  “You son of a—”

  “Her name’s Tania. Got to go.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up that fucking—”

  I slapped the mouthpiece back on the cradle, slung my bag over my shoulder and took a deep breath. Everything was done. All the loose ends of my life tied up in under twenty minutes. Now that was efficiency.

  There was nothing else for it. I cast one more look around the apartment and threw open the front door.

  I found myself staring at a chest that looked like it had been built for pulverizing buildings. I looked up, and up, and finally found the head that was attached.

  Detective Todd glanced at the bag slung over my shoulder, then looked me hard in the eyes. “Going somewhere, Miles?”

  I had to admit, it looked bad. My brain spun, trying to devise a good lie, but Todd didn’t stop to wait. He strode into the apartment, forcing me backward lest I be crushed under his bulk, and shut the door behind him.

  Confused and overloaded, my brain reverted to its backup setting: being an asshole. “You’re a lot uglier than the last hooker I ordered.”

  Todd stared at me for a second, then tilted his head back and burst out laughing.

  I glanced at the front door again and pondered making a run for it. No. Todd was big, but I had a sneaking suspicion he’d catch me and pound me into the ground before I made it halfway down the stairs. It’s hard to stay fit when you’re surviving mostly on a diet of instant noodles.

  Finally, his laughter subsided, and he returned his attention to me. His face had been well-worn over the years, with deep wrinkles across his face. I’d never asked his age, but I would put him in his mid-40s, even though he looked much older. The silver streaks in his hair didn’t give him the dignified look they were supposed to, they just made him look aged.

  When the last of his laughs faded, he pointed me to the dark brown couch that smelled of mothballs. “Hell of a night, huh? Supposed to be my time with my son.”

  “Yeah?” I said, barely listening. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “It’s three in the a.m. and I’m hanging around with you. What do you think?” He gestured to the couch again. “Come on. We got to talk.”

  I glanced at the door once more, then went and took a seat. I rested my bag at my side, leaving my arms free. The nightstick rested against my ribs, hidden inside my jacket, but I didn’t let myself think too much about it.

  Todd dragged my armchair around so it was directly opposite the couch and dropped into it, the springs creaking violently under his weight. “I saw the look on your face back at the station. Didn’t take no genius to work out you’d try to bolt.”

  I tried not to let the guilt show on my face. Apparently, I didn’t do a very good job, because Todd fixed me with a stern look. It’s pretty easy to pull off a stern look when it’s backed up by 240 pounds of muscle.

  Lying wasn’t going to work. I’d have to try honesty for a change. “I don’t think I’m right for this job.”

  Todd shrugged. “Of course you’re not. You’re a bloody civilian, with a criminal record at that.”

  “Why the hell you dragging me into your mess, then?”

  “You’ve seen what the department’s like at the moment. How many of those cops do you think are in the pocket of one gang or another? Sixty per cent? Seventy? How many of them stand to benefit if Chroma hits the streets? Everyone’s gonna try get their hands on a piece of the pie, and none of them will give a fuck if it’s so hot it burns them.”

  It wasn’t exactly breaking news that the police in Bluegate had long since stopped being an instrument of the state. But that didn’t make this my problem. “I’m just a Tunneler. I’m not the department’s dog.”

  Todd reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He offered me one, and I shook my head.

  “I’ve been watching you since that weapons smuggling case,” he said as he lit up. “You ain’t got one gang-related blotch on your record. That’s almost unheard of for Tunnelers in this town, you know that. Vivian ain’t so keen on having you on board. It was me that swung it.”

  “Gee, thanks, Walt.”

  “There’s something else.” He reached into his pocket, and as he did so the pistol in his shoulder harness became visible beneath his jacket. I tensed, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out a folded bit of paper with a photograph paperclipped to it, and passed it to me. “You know her?”

  The photograph was a poor quality picture of a round-faced lady, middle aged, with her hair in a pixie cut that didn’t suit her. She stared directly at the camera, unsmiling, reminding me of a foster mother I once had. “I know of her. She graduated a few years ahead of me. Shirley O’Neil. She’s a Tunneler.”

  Todd nodded and leaned forward in the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Our info has her working for John Andrews these days. Pulls in a nice six-figure income, so I hear, all off the books, of course.” He threw a glance around my cramped apartment. “We got a lead that suggests she might be connected to Doctor Dee. If it’s Andrews behind this new drug, we can expect him to move fast and hard against his competitors when it hits the streets.”

  I chewed my lip. I thought I was out of my depth before, now I’d been thrown into the river with concrete blocks tied to my feet. John Andrews was a Vei gangster that controlled most of the northern side of Bluegate, and he didn’t do it by shaking hands and kissing babies. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but Vei names tended to be unpronounceable at the best of times, even when you knew a bit of the language.

  “I got a good idea what you’re thinking, Miles. But we’ll be with you all the way on this, me and Vivian. We ain’t gonna hang you out for John Andrews and his cronies to tear apart. But you can give us a street-level view we can’t get from our department.”

  “Walt—”

  “It’s our best bet for stopping this before it gets any innocent folks hurt.”

  The bastard was really pushing the hard sell. It was easy to make promises, but John Andrews’ reach was long. I didn’t trust a thin blue line to hold him back. “I don’t know O’Neil personally. She’s just a face and a reputation to me.”

  “I know. But she’s got herself a personal assistant, a Vei by the name of Lance Peterson.”

  It took me a second to place the name. “I smuggled him and his brother into Bluegate last year,” I said slowly. “I thought he was a good kid.”

  Detective Todd shrugged. “Maybe he got mixed up with the wrong bunch. It’s easy enough to do in this city.”

  “You want me to talk to him.”

  “We need an angle, Miles. We can keep him out of trouble if he helps us on this. If he doesn’t…” Todd shrugged.

  Goddamn it. This was what I got for not taking one of those nice salaries and working for a gang. Being the good guy is a son of a bitch.

  Todd grinned at me. “I knew you’d come around.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll do it yet.”

  He slapped me on the shoulder, and it felt like one of my lungs collapsed. “It’s written all over your face.” He pulled another slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “Meet you back at the station in twenty, then we’ll head out. It ain’t too late to go visit him now. People are so much more cooperative when they’re sleep-deprived.” He winked at me, stood up, and made for the door.

  “You’r
e a real bastard, you know that, Walt?” I said.

  He lifted his hand above his head, waving without turning back, and walked out the door.

  I went to the fridge, got a beer, and popped the top. I stood over the sink and slugged it back, barely tasting it. I’d been so looking forward to a little peace.

  “Fuck it.”

  All right. I’d play their game if it would get them off my back. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t cheat a little. I tossed the empty into the sink, returned my getaway bag to my bedroom, and grabbed my address book and my motorbike helmet.

  I’d go see Peterson. But not with any goddamn cops holding my leash. If I was going to do this, I was doing it my way.

  I slammed the door behind me.

  THE MAN WHO CROSSED WORLDS

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chris Strange is a speculative fiction author who writes urban fantasy with a distinct noir influence. Inspired by the likes of Jim Butcher’s THE DRESDEN FILES and Mike Carey’s FELIX CASTOR series, he aims to deliver intense, humorous and sometimes dark stories to his readers.

  In his spare time, Chris is an unapologetic geek, spending far too long wrapped up in speculative fiction books, watching old zombie movies and playing computer games. He lives in the far away land of New Zealand, and occasionally he goes to university like he’s supposed to.

  He doesn’t plan on growing up any time soon.

  Contact Chris at: chrisstrangeauthor@gmail.com

  www.Chris-Strange.com