“Honey?” I called, “have you seen my H&K? I can’t find it out here.”
No answer. I waited a minute or two.
“Sweetie? Are you okay in there? You been in there a real long time. Come on out, why don’t you?”
“You’re gonna kill me,” she said at last, her voice trembling with fear, and I could tell she was crying.
“Aw, c’mon, Sugar. Let’s not argue over who’s trying to kill who,” I answered.
I could hear her sobbing now, and all of a sudden I felt bad. That was Cinti in there. Six years of my life, really the six best. Hell, I wasn’t going to kill her, but she didn’t know that, and that last smart remark was nothing but torture.
“Cinti, you ever know me to kill two people in the same night? Think about it. It’s too messy.”
I let her think about it for a while.
“Cinti?”
“Yeah?”
“If I want to kill you, I can just come in there and kill you. You’re not good enough, even with the H&K, to stop me, and you know it. Your backstairs boyfriend was a professional killer in body armor, he took me by surprise and unarmed, and he’s out here getting stiff. So how well do you think you’ll do? Now toss the damned pistol out before I get angry.”
The door opened a crack, and she tossed out the heavy automatic. Cinti wasn’t stupid. I got up and picked it up and slipped the Hawker into the pocket of my slacks. The H&K was a real hand cannon, and it was . . . persuasive; people take one look at it and start babbling. The door opened again, and she stuck her head out, eyes wide, makeup smeared by tears. She looked at Ricky’s body on the floor and started crying again.
“Let’s go out in the living room,” I said. “We’re going to sit for a while, and you’re going to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Then you’re going to take a couple thousand in cash, and one suitcase of clothes, and disappear.”
“How do I know you won’t just kill me?”
“Cinti, if you’ve got a better offer, go ahead and take it.”
She went out into the living room. Before I joined her, I triggered my embedded comm link and squinted up Henry’s number from my autolist.
“Yeah, boss,” he answered inside my head.
“Cleanup in Aisle One.”
“On my way.”
FOUR
Henry and I cleaned up the apartment ourselves. He took care of Ricky’s body, and I packed Cinti off on the up-canyon red-eye maglev an hour before dawn, with a couple thousand in her pocket, as promised. One of Henry’s guys was with her, to make sure she showed up at Karla Bell’s place in Manaklak Bay. Karla owed me from a while back, and I lined up a singing slot at her jazz club for Cinti. Karla would put her up and make sure she stayed put. I was doing Karla as much of a favor as she was doing me; Cinti really was that good. Maybe if I’d opened the club we’d talked about, things would have been different.
Water under the bridge.
Later that morning I sat in my office, tried to figure my next move, and didn’t get anywhere useful.
The story Cinti had told made ugly sense, ugly enough I believed it. Much as Ricky had it in for me, and much as Cinti made his dick stand up and salute, I thought Cinti was too smart to have gone along with this move if it was just Ricky on his own, and I was right. Kolya was behind it. That much Cinti knew, but not much more than that.
I figured maybe Kolya wouldn’t have tried moving against me, either, but he was always quick to recognize a fleeting opportunity. Ricky was ready to do the deed today; no telling how he’d feel next week. But why let him go after me at all? Was he that pissed off about me dragging my feet on the Laugh? Maybe. But that couldn’t be all of it.
Ricky would be easier to control than I was, he must have figured, and Kolya would get a bigger slice of my action. Ricky was tough enough to keep the crew together, but he’d still need Kolya behind him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also figured that Ricky wouldn’t inspire a lot of loyalty, and Kolya could play that to his advantage, too.
Not that I’d been exactly a champ at inspiring loyalty lately, either. Even Henry had started wondering what the hell my problem was, although seeing Ricky dead on the bedroom floor had settled some of his worries. But Cinti . . .
That was the big question I’d needed answered: why?
The reason was simple. She saw a showdown coming between Kolya and me, if not today, then tomorrow, or next week, or next cycle, or whenever, but it was coming. When it came, she needed to be on the winning side if she wanted to survive. In addition to everything else, Cinti was a survivor, and one smart lady. She’d bet on me over Jim Donahue six years ago. Now her money was on Kolya. That was fairly discouraging.
How much would Kolya know I knew? If I knew he was behind the killing—and he knew that I knew—he’d figure his hand was forced and he’d have to keep going. I wasn’t sure I could convince him that I didn’t know he was behind it. Kolya wasn’t stupid, and he knew I wasn’t stupid. So how stupid could the two of us pretend to be to keep the peace?
I really didn’t want a war with Kolya, not right now. Henry was ready, which was unusual for him. Normally, he was a pretty cautious guy, but I think he was just losing patience. “We gotta shit or get off the pot,” he’d said earlier this morning, before he went home. But Kolya had more guys than we did, and the hard truth was he was tougher than me, so there was a good chance we’d lose, and second prize in this war wasn’t going to be all that great.
To be honest, I wasn’t crazy about winning, either. I didn’t want Kolya’s job. That was probably the root of my real problem. Once I’d be in charge, the killing would just have started. I’d have to keep killing people, just to let the guys know I’m capable and willing. And lots of the guys were thick enough that I’d have to do it fairly frequently, lest they forget. Who but a homicidal sociopath would want that job?
And that brought me to something that had been bothering me. I was beginning to wonder if I’d misplaced my soul.
What are we? Is our soul what we are deep down inside, or is it what we do? That’s the question.
I never took any pride in what I was born—or any shame, either, and it seems to me that people who do are pretty much losers. Pride and shame have to do with your accomplishments, not somebody else’s, so knowing that my great-great-great-grandfather helped defend Moscow against the Nazis is interesting, but it’s not something I’m proud of, because I didn’t do it.
Sooner or later everyone ends up doing something they’re ashamed of but takes consolation in the fact that “deep down inside” they’re a good person. They just did this bad thing out of unfortunate necessity, but they didn’t really want to, so it wasn’t as bad. Their urge was to do good, and so the existence of that urge proves they are good, even while they were pushing people into boxcars—or selling drugs.
Right?
If so, I guess I’m supposed to be ashamed of the things I want to do, can’t help wanting to do, was born wanting to do, but don’t do, since I know they’re wrong. Because if good urges mean you’re good, even though you do bad things, then bad urges must mean you’re bad, even though you do good things.
But I don’t know. If I feel the urge to bang a friend’s wife, but choose not to, am I supposed to be ashamed of the urge, or proud of the choice? You can’t have it both ways. In which of those two things—urge or choice—does my soul reside?
I was still gathering that wool when Mrs. Laubach, my admin, knocked and stuck her head in.
“Sasha, I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed . . .”
“It’s okay, Sophie, what’s up?”
“There’s a lady here to see you, and she had this.” She waddled over—Sophie was only a meter and a half tall, and a good 100 kilos if she was a gram—and put a metallic business card on my desk. It was from Arrie’s art gallery, his front business.
“Lady? As in Human lady?”
“Yeah, Human lady. She says it’s very important.”
�
�Hmm. Is she good-looking? I’m kinda in the market.”
“I suppose. Not really your type, though.”
“That figures. Well, hell. I’m not getting anything else done. Let’s see what Arrie’s friend wants. I sure don’t need to piss him off right now. Oh, and Sophie, one more thing. I want you to take the rest of the day off. In fact, take the rest of the week off, with pay.”
I opened the bottom drawer, opened the flat safe, and counted out a week’s salary from the emergency fund. It didn’t seem like a lot when I got done, so I counted out another week’s worth. When I handed the flexichips to her, she just looked at them for a moment.
“It’s really bad, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Sophie, I’ve lived through a lot worse. But if there’s a . . . you know . . . disagreement, I don’t want you to get hurt. So take some time with your old man. It’s just a precaution. You know how careful I am.”
She wasn’t buying it, but some things aren’t meant to be bought—they’re just the things you say so you don’t have to talk about ugly stuff that won’t get any less ugly for talking about it.
“Check the wire for messages every day, if you would,” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I’m expecting word on about a dozen clerical jobs up-canyon. Could really mean something for a couple families. You’ve got the names.”
“Sure.”
“And tell the cleaning crew not to come in, okay? Okay. So, I guess show in Miss Sunshine, or whatever the hell her name is.”
“Marfoglia, her card says.” She handed that to me and then waddled back out. This card was also metallic—a silvery gray—and expensive-looking, with engraving that glowed reddish gold when the light hit it right.
Marrissa Marfoglia, PhD.
Market Consultant.
Not Marketing Consultant. I wondered what the difference was. Probably an extra zero at the end of the paycheck. The door opened again and I looked up.
Quite a consultant. She looked like she’d been airbrushed into an ad for some obscenely expensive perfume. Her black pumps probably cost about what I’d just given Sophie, and the gray pinstriped suit was so well tailored it followed every curve of her body without a fold or wrinkle, and without looking like it was tight anywhere. Her blond hair was pulled back in a smooth, simple bun, and she was wearing makeup, but not too much. She was one hot number, if you were into that whole cold steel robot look.
Lots of guys were.
She looked around my office, and I could see that it wasn’t what she’d been expecting. God knows what that was, but whatever it was, this wasn’t it.
“I don’t really know if there’s anything you can do to help me, but Mr. Arrakatlak insisted that I speak with you.”
“Have a seat,” I offered.
She sat down, a little heavily, the only indication from her movements she wasn’t from around here. I guessed she was Earth-born, so carrying around five or six more kilos than she was used to. Most folks you could tell from their gait, but she had the sort of graceful walk people—some people—spent a lot of money to have their kids taught. She put her small briefcase in her lap and studied me for a moment.
“Mr. Naradnyo, what exactly is it that you do?”
I just looked at her for a second or two before I answered.
“I do a lot of things . . . exactly. What is it you need done?”
“It says on your door that this is an employment agency. I don’t need an employment agent.”
“It doesn’t just say it on the door; this is an employment agency,” I answered, starting to get irritated. Some people think they’ll have an advantage in negotiations if they start by making the other person uncomfortable or self-conscious, and that’s what she was trying here. I had a few things on my plate that morning, like figuring out how I was going to get to tomorrow morning alive, and this Marfoglia person was starting to wear thin after about one minute. That did not bode well for a successful professional relationship.
“Look, lady,” I said, “I’m going to take a wild guess here and theorize that what you want done—if looked at from a particularly narrow-minded perspective—might not be considered entirely legal. That being the case, you can’t go someplace that has what you need stenciled on the door, ’cause those people will call the Munies as soon as you leave just to protect their licenses. So what the hell difference does it make what’s on my door?”
For an instant, I fantasized she’d storm away in a huff and leave me to my melancholy brooding, but no such luck. Instead, she looked down at her briefcase and nodded.
“Yes, of course. You’re right.”
“I won’t kill anyone,” I said.
She looked up, a little surprised but not really shocked.
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
“Good.”
“You’ve never killed anyone?” she asked after a moment, her curiosity getting the better of her.
Boy, what a day to get asked that question, huh?
“I’m not in the mood,” I answered, and that was the truth. I was tired of hurting people.
“I need passage off Peezgtaan and to Akaampta for four people: myself, two companions, and a . . . security specialist. A bodyguard, I suppose. Mr. Arrakatlak said that you could provide us with such a person, someone who is trustworthy.”
She pronounced the planet names like a leather-head, with clicks instead of the velar phonemes—Peezg!aan and A!aampta. Actually, since they are Varoki names, I guess if you wanted to be fair you’d say we use velar phonemes instead of clicks.
How many guys even know what a velar phoneme is, I wondered?
“Private charter or commercial?” It made a huge difference in price.
“Oh . . . commercial,” she answered. Okay, so we weren’t talking the mega-buckage range.
“Awake or asleep?” That was another big price break, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that one.
“I think that, for security reasons, we’d need to avoid cold sleep.”
“I’ll need the biometrics before I can do anything,” I said.
She nodded, reached into her briefcase, and pulled out a data tab. I opened the channel on my desk reader, she thumbed the data tab to transmit, and everything started to make sense. Lifting four people off-planet—why had Arrie tried to fob this job off on me? He could snap his fingers (well, actually, he physically couldn’t snap his fingers, which was a serious limitation to his beat persona, but if he could have . . . ) and get jump tickets for four people.
But it wasn’t four Human people. One Human—female, 52 kilos, United States of North America citizen, Earth permanent resident. One Varoki—male, 77 kilos, uPeezgtaan citizen and permanent resident. One Varoki—male, 92 kilos, uKa-Maat citizen, Akaampta permanent resident. One Human—gender, mass, citizenship, and residency to be provided. That would be the bodyguard.
Marfoglia sounded like a North American, although she looked more Scandinavian. The look could be cosmetic alterations, or it could be Northeast U.S. old money genes, hard to tell. Either way it meant buckage. The citizenship and residency of the other two were probably phony.
I leaned back in the chair, locked my fingers behind my head, and studied the fine cracks in my ceiling for a moment. I felt a burning sensation where Ricky’s flechette had torn across my shoulder blade, just the reminder I needed that life was becoming more . . . interesting.
Interesting indeed. Two leather-heads so hot that none of Arrie’s contacts would handle them. Maybe it was political. Politics always messes up business. Pass them off to Sasha, who doesn’t know anything about leather-head politics, or care a mouse’s fart, and if everything ends in gunfire and blood, Arrie’s still clean. And alive. You had to hand it to the guy.
“Mr. Arrakatlak said to tell you that he would be very grateful if you could help with this. Very grateful. He told me to emphasize that.” Her voice was businesslike, very controlled, but under it I sensed desperation. She and her leather-he
ad pals were in deep trouble. They had come to the end of the line, and I was it, and they were probably hot as hell and bringing all that heat with them. I wasn’t sure Arrie was capable of being grateful enough to make this worth my while.
“Are you and Mr. Arrakatlak . . . business associates?” she asked after a moment. Of course, etiquette prevented me from saying we were, because that would mean Arrie was crooked. She probably already knew, or at least suspected, that, but it wasn’t for me to confirm it.
“Arrie and I are kind of friends,” I answered.
“What exactly does that mean, ‘kind of’ friends’?”
“Well, if something really horrible were to happen to me, Arrie would feel bad, and if he were the one who actually did it to me, he’d feel even worse.”
“You must have wonderful friends,” she said, and a bit of her distaste seeped through the professional façade.
“Not really.” I stayed leaning back in my chair, studying the ceiling, but I needed a couple more pieces of the puzzle.
“I’ve got some questions. Don’t bullshit me. Your friends are hot. Both of them? Or just one?”
“Both,” she answered reluctantly.
“How about you? Hot?”
She shook her head.
“Are people going to look for you as a lead to your friends?”
She shook her head again. That made sense. It’s probably why they were using a Human as a go-between.
“Their comm implants are disabled, right?”
“They have no communication implants,” she answered, “so there won’t be a problem with remote tracking.”
Really? Leather-heads with no comm implants? Who were these guys?
“There are two more things,” she added. I looked at her without sitting back up.
“First, Mr. Arrakatlak asked that you not contact him directly. He said that it would be dangerous.”
“Yeah? Then how am I supposed to know you really came from him?”
How Dark the World Becomes Page 3