Damage Time

by Colin Harvey

  Bailey turned without stopping and followed him out. "That line ever work for you?"

  "Feisty," Shah called without slowing. "Been on the vitamin supplements, or are you always so sharp on a Monday morning?" He motioned Bailey to switch off her eyepiece. "Just for a moment," he added.

  "Where are we going?" Bailey said.

  They walked down to the street. Shah waited until they'd left the building and plunged into the rush-hour commuters before he answered. "We're going to see a personnel agency. One of these exclusive headhunter-y type of places that saves you having to find a new job yourself if you're an executive or you got something an employer wants."

  "Let me guess. It's run by Indians, for Indians?"

  "You're sort of half-right. This one is fronted by old schooltypes, blazers, ties, Massachewsets nasal accents. But they're not proud, they'll take anybody's money." He switched his eyepiece back on, and Bailey followed suit.

  Regency Placements' offices were only a short walk uptown. Shah pushed open the door barely two minutes after they opened. One of the young women was still taking off her jacket, which Shah noted was reassuringly expensive. Like the decor. He noted the prints and furniture which were either genuine antique, or aged fakes. His feet sank into a thick carpet.

  "Good Morning Sir, Madam." The man who met them had the obligatory Ivy League manner, even down to a fraternity ring on his little finger. Almost two meters tall, he was fashionably thin, almost skeletal. Shah wouldn't have believed such stereotypes existed until now – he wasn't sure the guy's mannerisms weren't overacting. "How may we assist you?"

  Shah uploaded his ID, watched the man's face become even more impassive if that were possible. Shah followed it with five mug-shots. "Any of these people on file?" He knew that two of them were, since he had pulled genuine placements from the agency's own online brochure on Saturday morning. Two others were career criminals who shouldn't be agency clients, while the fifth was the reason they were here.

  "May I ask why you're enquiring?"

  "You may," Shah said. "But I may not answer. Now, you want me to call up Homeland and the IRS, anyone else I can think of, get a warrant, or…"

  Skeleton-Man said, "The fourth man. And the first and third." Shah had thought it unlikely that the career guys would be on file but they were suspected associates of Kotian's, so it didn't hurt to ask.

  "I need their details. Or I can get a warrant."

  "I'll… ah, need a few minutes."

  "You got five."

  While Shah and Bailey waited, the bell above the door rang to indicate another arrival, a bulky looking man in a sharp suit. When Shah's eyepiece chimed with Skeleton-Man's upload, they turned to leave. The new arrival blocked the doorway. "Officer Shah."

  Shah had an idea who the man was but frowned in mock innocence. "Do I know you?"

  "Partington," the man snapped. "I represent Abhijit Kotian. What are you doing here?"

  "If it's any of your business…?"

  "You're annoying Mr Kotian. It stops now."

  "I'm here because of a call from Boston PD. Guy stopped on a traffic violation was found to have false papers. He was green-carded by this place." Shah straightened, in obvious realization. "Wait a minute, this is Kotian's business?"

  "As if you didn't know."

  "No idea at all." It was true – up until the call to Shah's friend in the FBI on Saturday afternoon. Shah cocked his head. "So this place is a front?"

  "It's a genuine employment agency!" Skeleton-Man sputtered. "We had no idea–"

  "Charles," Partington said

  Skeleton-Man fell silent.

  Shah wondered at the power that could silence a man with a lifted hand. "But it's owned by Mr Kotian?"

  "You know that already. I said, this stops now. The arrested man is being processed by Boston PD. While you'd doubtless like to go fishing, we'll assert vigorously in court that not only were my clients duped, but that this has nothing to do with you. It's all part of your war of nerves against Mr Kotian, a man grieving for the son you shot. Need I say more?"

  "I guess not," Shah said. "Sorry to bother you and Mr Kotian." He put his hand on Bailey's arm to keep her quiet.

  Out on the sidewalk Shah said, "My, didn't he come a-running quick? We got Kotian rattled, partner."

  Inevitably on his return, Shah had his metaphorical new windpipe ripped for him, but he took it without complaint since van Doorn stopped short of suspension.

  When the captain had finally finished, Shah said, "One question, sir?"

  "Go on."

  "Tosada. Do we eliminate him as a person of interest?"

  Van Doorn stared. "Why?"

  "Only that my running into Kotian on Friday night came because of a social call to Tosada. We got mutual acquaintances, see, and I'd hate a social visit to be mis-con-strued."

  Van Doorn looked as if he were sucking on a lemon. "Is there any obvious connection between our investigations and his projects?"

  Shah shook his head. "Don't think so. One big problem with investigating a social gadfly like Kotian is that everyone the guy meets automatically becomes a person of interest."

  "But?"

  Shah pulled a face. "I think we was sidetracked by a potential connection between them that probably isn't anything more than one of Kotian's token legit projects."

  "So…" van Doorn said, thinking furiously. "You can visit Tosada and when you do, you make sure that you let him know that it's a social visit." The captain glared at Shah. "No more games, no more stratagems, got it?"

  "Sir."

  That afternoon they held an impromptu meeting around Shah's desk. "How many people are sending these clips?" Bailey stood looking down at the antique CDs, forming the apex of a triangle with van Doorn and Shah. "Kotian wouldn't send you rips incriminating his own son. And who was ripping Sunny?"

  Van Doorn fanned himself with a piece of paper. At eightthirty in the morning the air in the office was already stifling, despite the fans blowing it around. "ME's report indicates trauma to Sunny's brain consistent with ripping activity over a period of many years. Either Papa was the culprit, or he was self-ripping."

  "You can't rip your own memories – the extraction causes the trauma!" Bailey protested. "You'd just shut off the machine!"

  Shah said, "In theory. But you can override the safeties if you know how, and you're prepared to endure the agony. From the ME's report, and the rips and burns we've been able to piece together, Sunny fits that psych-profile to perfection."

  "Still doesn't answer who sent the Sunny rips. No CD, but sent from different eyepieces. All stolen."

  "We've got Sunny's accomplices," Shah said. "Uniform are bringing them in. Maybe they can shed some light on who our mystery informant is."

  "Maybe," Bailey said. "Can we make a case for attempted murder on Marietetski?"

  Shah looked at her. You got a mind like a grasshopper, girl. If he were honest, she was simply faster than him. His joints had ached for several mornings, and when he'd finally got to see the medic, the young woman had smiled sadly, "Rheumatism, Pete. You're getting old." This morning he seemed to be suffering from mental rheumatism, as well.

  Van Doorn shook his head. "I'll talk to Grunwald, but I doubt it. Aggravated assault's probably the most we can hang on them, and as friends of Sunny – and therefore Papa – they'll walk free in a year, maybe less."

  "Like Sunny thought, they're expendable," Shah said.

  Van Doorn shrugged. "Still a result. Anyway, I have a meeting to go to. Performance figures. Oh, joy." He blew out his cheeks.

  "You sound down," Bailey said when van Doorn had gone. "Thought you'd be walking on air getting confirmation it was Sunny and ID on his accomplices turning up outta the blue."

  "Not sure an unsupported memory of a dead man is admissible," Shah said. "And unless we get separate corroboration, if the defense get the clip thrown out, any evidence that arises from it also gets thrown out." He blew out his cheeks. "It's that 'out of the blue' part
that bothers me. Ever heard of the phrase 'beware Greeks bearing gifts'?"

  "Nope," Bailey said. "What Greeks are those?"

  At first Shah thought she was joking, then shook his head in despair. Kids, he thought. What are they teaching 'em nowadays?

  Shah finished late that evening; they'd palmed off the getaway driver onto another precinct, but kept the three accomplices. The three – career villains all – had clammed up while they waited in the interview rooms, kicking the table leg in one case, tapping the table in another. "Let 'em sweat," Shah said to his relief, Itandje, a middle-aged plodder of Nigerian parentage. Only when it was clear that he'd miss visiting hours did Shah hand over to another shift. "Take 'em right to the time limit, then charge them."

  "Based on the rip?" Itandje said around a mouthful of appetite-suppressant gum.

  "We'll have got corroboration by then," Shah said, more confidently than he felt.

  "We'll take our time with the paperwork," Itandje said. "Drag it out enough to miss the morning deadline for non-urgent cases."

  "Their lawyers'll argue they should be expedited."

  "Then we'll argue that one first, which'll delay 'em still further." Itandje grinned, showing white teeth yellowing. "We'll bury them in red tape for a change. Buy time to find more evidence. I'll have the guys hunt down more camera footage, and accidentally stumble across anything we find – we wasn't looking for Paulie and the others yer honner, no, no no."

  "Good man." Shah clapped him on the shoulder.

  Outside the evening sky was dark indigo, verging on nightfall, but the heat still rose off the pavements, assailing Shah with dust and bird droppings and decaying food spillage.

  Shah jumped into a pedicab, but even so the straining Thai driver only just got him to the hospital before closing time for visitors. The ward was unusually busy with people milling around like an ant nest poked with a stick. Many were strangers, but Shah recognized Marietetski's mother and grandmother. Neither looked particularly pleased to see Shah.

  "Who're you?" said an ebony-skinned old man Shah hadn't seen before.

  "Shah. I'm John's work partner. Where is he?"

  "Gone," the old man said, staring at the wall rather than meet Shah's gaze.

  "Where? I don't under–" He added, realization dawning, "Oh."

  "They turned off the life support machine," Marietetski's grandmother's voice buzz-sawed into the conversation: cold, harsh, her accent thickened with emotion. "They turned it off when we couldn't afford to pay, because the in-sewer-ance people said that there was no brain function, so they wasn't for going to pay no more."

  "Oh, shit," Shah mumbled. "I'm sorry, Mrs Trebonnet."

  The old woman nodded, but Shah's condolences seemed to act as a lightning conductor for the other man's grief, which turned to rage, his breathing growing ragged as he shouted, "What for you doing here, anyway? You some sorta ghoul, gets pleasure going to wakes, or are you hopin' to sell us more in-sewer-ance that's no good when we need it?" The old man had clearly forgotten who Shah was. "G'wan now! Away wit' you!"

  "John!" Mrs Trebonnet said. "There's no need for that. It's not his fault."

  "He was the best, the brightest of any nephew a man could have," the old man gasped. "Never mind that no-good Polack father of his, he was our boy."

  Shah couldn't sort out the tangled stew of emotions within him – sympathy for Mrs Trebonnet, a muted grief at losing a friend he'd never really known, sadness at another prop from the old days being kicked away.

  Mrs Trebonnet steered Shah to the door. "Don't mind Uncle John," she whispered. "He always was a crybaby. And he feeling guilty 'cause – well, with his feelings about the police and how much he hated John joining the force, it hardly be surprising he's a little upset. Calling the boy Uncle Tom and Race Judas isn't how he want to remember young John."

  Shah pulled it open, pausing in the doorway. "I wish I could do something." For a moment he was tempted to ask about any memories John had sent her, but it was too soon. Maybe later.

  "Catch the killers," Mrs Trebonnet said, her lower lip quivering, but otherwise in control. "Catch them, make them pay."

  "One of them's dead already. My colleague shot him as he was running away."

  "Good." Mrs Trebonnet snapped, hard enough to bury the word in the wall.

  "In custody. We've charged them with token offences to keep them in, and we have a team working on it through the night." He dared not admit that the team was a Nigerian too fond of doughnuts, even if he did know all the old dog tricks.

  "Anything you need, anything at all, you call us." Mrs Trebonnet's voice diamond hard. "You pay your respects to my boy by catching his killers."

  Out in the main corridor Shah tottered into the washroom. He splashed water on his face. In the mirror a gaunt, holloweyed old man stared back. I'm adrift, he thought. One by one the ropes that hold me in place are being cut. First Leslyn, now John.

  His eyepiece chimed, counterpointing the angry buzz marking a 911 call: "All units 10-18 to corner of West 13th and 9th. Shots fired – all units 10-18 to corner of West 13th and 9th. Shots fired – all units 10-18 to corner of West 13th and 9th. Shots fired – all units 10-18–"

  It took Shah until the fourth iteration to register that the address was his.

  Then he was off and running down the stairs.

  LX

  It's been a quiet evening, like every evening is recently. Johns are an endangered species this far from Manhattan. Maybe you'll have to admit defeat and move back into town.

  Unless you score soon, there'll be no more Scramble-dreams of childhood, those glorious few months between Rex starting school, and you following him into kindergarten. Make the most of what you have.

  Instead of a muggy summer's evening with its furnace breeze carrying the raw-sewage stink, you're the center of your parent's attention again. It's one of the days leading up to Christmas, when even Granny Afsoon's disapproval of infidel customs can't dispel the joy.

  A hand on your arm recalls you to the present, and Granny to the grave she's occupied these last twelve years. He's about thirty, thirty-five, well-dressed, superficially Caucasian. But like your father, skin tones and dark eyes hint at Asian ancestry. "For someone who's showing so much flesh," he says, "you don't seem very interested in working."

  You sketch a smile. "Hi, Honey. You caught me daydreaming. Looking for fun?"

  "You know I am. I'm parked over there."

  'There' is a big old planet-raping gas-guzzler with darkened windows. The sight of the thing arouses an embarrassed flush no sexual proposition could, and you slow to a stop. "You think I'm getting in that? No way!"

  He keeps walking. "You will if you want the kilo of pure Scramble in my pocket."

  That much Scramble can set you up for a year, with some left over to deal as well. But though your brain's got more holes than a Swiss cheese, the size of the fee is alarming. "What do you want?"

  "Six guys," he says. "Uncle Pablo and our cousins are visiting with gifts, and we thought we'd show them a good time as a thank-you." His hand rests on the passenger door.

  He's no more South American than you, although the Columbians still have some say in what comes in and goes out. Maybe they're the high-ups, and he's a glorified errand-boy. Nah, something's not right. You lick your lips, calculating. "Six guys at once?"

  He shrugs, opens the passenger door up front. "We'll find a girl who's more obliging. There'll be one on the next street."

  "Wait!" You think, three orifices, two hands. "I can do five." You force a laugh, though this is spiraling out of control. With a pang, you unexpectedly think of Daddy, and his last visit, and wonder what he would think. Then you remember that even in the good days, there was that ghost of an unseen sister, haunting them, haunting you. "Yeah, I can do five. The last guy can jack off on me."

  He opens the door behind him for you. "Good enough. The loser can give you a facial. We'll burn copies later."

  As you climb in, you force anot
her laugh. "Porn, huh? Do I get royalties?"

  You look around. The others are more clearly Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi than the front man – the older handsome movie dude apart. Their faces are flint-hard and cold.

  You swallow.

  Older handsome movie dude has a look in his eye that

  makes you want to be anywhere else as he says, "Don't worry, Perveza, you're going to be the star of the show."

  You grab the door handle, but it doesn't move.

  He chuckles. "Feel free to scream darling. Daddy will appreciate it even more." He pulls out a wad of Scramble, enough to blow your brains out. "Here, have some of this."