Destroying Angel

by Richard Paul Russo

  Three more flares went off on Telegraph Hill, but this time there was no gunfire. They watched as the glow of the flares burned brightly for a minute, then faded. One of the cats jumped onto Tanner’s lap, metal claws digging through his pants.

  “You could be right,” Alexandra said. “I suppose it makes a kind of sense.” She reached under the chair, scratched Kubo, then looked at Tanner. “You glad you’re not a cop anymore? You won’t have to deal with this.”

  Tanner gave a short, chopped laugh.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “I’m not a cop, but I’m involved. I’m stuck in this damn thing.”

  “Why?”

  Tanner just shook his head.

  “You don’t know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “But you know something.”

  “Sort of. Really, Alexandra, I don’t want to go into it.” He held out his cup for a refill. “I just want to sit up here with you, have some cider, talk about other things, and enjoy the night.”

  Alexandra nodded. She poured fresh cider for them both, and they remained silent, drinking.

  A series of multicolored flares filled the sky, this time to the south, sending up a brilliant, shifting glow. Several loud explosions sounded, then a column of flame rose into the air, fanned out, and showered back to earth.

  “Wonderful,” Alexandra said. “Probably the Purists at work again.”

  “ ‘Purify with flame, sanctify His Name,’ ” Tanner quoted.

  With the buildings of the Financial District blocking the view, he could no longer see flames, but Tanner knew that buildings were burning somewhere south of Market.

  “Enjoy the night,” Alexandra said.

  ELEVEN

  THE FIRE BLAZED just a few blocks from the drive-in. The flickering glow interfered slightly with the picture on the screen that had been erected at the boundary of the junkyard. Sookie sat in the front seat of a big four-door Buick, watching the movie through the glassless windshield. Sound came from a dozen speakers scattered throughout the junkyard. Most of the top-level cars around her were occupied. Nearly a full house.

  The movie on the screen was called The Courier’s Revenge, and starred Sylvia Romilar as a corporate gene courier. It was a comedy, and Sookie had been laughing since the movie had begun. Everyone in the junkyard was laughing.

  A knock came on the driver’s door. Sookie leaned over, looked out the window—it was Dex, the food man, on his stilts. Racks hung from his neck, filled with boxed candy, popcorn, and canned drinks. Sookie bought a large carton of popcorn and a can of Twist, and Dex moved on.

  On the screen, Sylvia Romilar, naked, was winding herself up in Saran Wrap. Empty boxes and rolls lay all over the floor of the tiny bullet train cabin. She flopped onto the bench seat, trying to wrap her arms. Sookie had no idea why Sylvia, whose name was Natasha in the movie, was doing this. That’s what Sookie liked about Sylvia Romilar’s movies—most of them never made any sense.

  There was a dull thud on the roof of the car, then footsteps, the car rocking, and another thud. A man’s head appeared upside down in the windshield.

  “Hey, chickie,” the guy said.

  “Move it, asshole, you’re blocking the picture.” She shifted across the seat, trying to see the screen.

  “Want some company, chickie?” He slid along the roof, blocking her view again.

  Sookie slapped at him, he pulled up and away, and she slid back across the seat. “Go away!” She tried to pick up what was happening in the movie. Sylvia/Natasha was now crawling along the roof of the bullet train, still wearing only the Saran Wrap, her hair blowing wildly in the wind and shooting bright blue sparks.

  The guy’s head reappeared, then his body as he pulled himself through the windshield and into the car. Sookie shoved him and he lost his grip, landing half on the seat, half on the floor. He pulled himself onto the seat, next to Sookie, and she punched him in the ribs, swung at his face.

  “Get out!”

  The guy laughed, blocking her punches. “Hey, hey, hey, chickie! I just want some company, don’t you?”

  “No.” She pulled back against the door, watching him. Slowly, she reached down next to the seat, felt for the gravity knife. She wasn’t scared—the guy was a jerk, but harmless—but she’d had enough of him.

  The guy was still grinning, and now he slid closer to her, until his thighs were pressed against her knees. “Hey, chickie, we’re at the drive-in, let’s have some fun.”

  He leaned forward, moving slowly, then his hand darted out and up under her T-shirt, fingers grabbing at her tiny breast. Sookie hit the charge, then brought the knife up and into the guy’s arm.

  The guy screamed, jerked his arm back. Sookie held tight onto the knife and it came free. The guy, still screaming, kicked wildly as he scrambled out through the windshield. His boot caught Sookie across the side of the head, knocked her into the steering wheel. The guy crawled across the hood of the car and dropped over the edge, landing heavily on the ground below. He stopped screaming, and Sookie could hear him stumble away through the junkyard.

  Sookie cut the knife’s charge and wiped the blade clean on her T-shirt. She put it back beside the seat. Then she groaned when she saw the popcorn scattered all over the floor of the car.

  Another knock on the car door. “Sookie, you all right?” It was Dex.

  Sookie leaned out the window and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “That your blood?”

  “No. But I need more popcorn. Asshole ruined all mine.”

  Dex gave her a carton. “On the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dex moved on, and Sookie sank back against the door, looking out the far side of the car, gazing at the fire instead of the screen. What a week. Bodies in the water. Machines and a winged monster in that Tundra basement. Now this. Maybe it was time to go see Mixer again.

  Sookie returned her gaze to the movie screen, settled back in the seat with her fresh popcorn, and tried to pick up the story line. On the screen, the bullet train was gone. Sylvia/Natasha, still in the Saran Wrap, sat inside a tiny shack, warming herself in front of a fire and smoking a cigarette. The fire popped loudly, and several large embers burst out, landing on her. The Saran Wrap ignited, began to melt and flame. Sookie laughed. She knew Sylvia would be just fine.

  TWELVE

  THE MEETING PLACE, on the outer edge of the old Civic Center, was appropriate, Tanner thought. From the concrete bench where he waited for Carlucci, he could see, a few blocks away, the upper reaches of the Tenderloin—razor wire on the roof boundaries, jagged television antennas and tiny satellite dishes, reflecting glass windows and armored balconies, vast networks of flowering vines, seeded catch-traps, and columns of steam rising through mist clouds that hovered above the enclave.

  Across the plaza, a group of True Millennialists swayed and stomped in chaotic, circular patterns around a pile of broken concrete blocks and twisted metal pipe. Occasionally one of the group would leap away from the others and scream into the face of a passerby, then rejoin the circle. The True Millennialists claimed that during the years of changeover from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar a great fraud had been perpetrated, skipping a number of years of reckoning so that the True Millennium had not occurred at the official turn of the century. Instead, they claimed, the True Millennium was only now approaching, due in less than two years and destined to bring about the destruction of all civilization.

  My kind of people, Tanner thought. A woman broke from the group, ran across the plaza, and stopped in front of him, staring with widened eyes.

  “Don’t bother repenting!” she shouted. “It’s too fucking late for that! Too much sin and not enough time. Hah!” She leaned forward, grinning at him. “The Chain Killer is one of the harbingers. He is the Angel of Death.” The woman was trembling. Christ, Tanner thought, that’s exactly what the media would call the guy if they ever found out about the angel wings. The woman whirled and sprinted
back to the group.

  “I’d heard you had a way with women.” It was Carlucci, who stood a few feet away, watching the True Millennialists. He looked at Tanner without smiling, then approached the bench and sat.

  Tanner didn’t say anything. He didn’t even want to ask Carlucci what he had come up with because he knew it wasn’t going to be good. So he waited in silence, looking up at the hazy, discolored sun.

  “Forecast is for two days without rain,” Carlucci said.

  “Is that supposed to be good or bad?”

  Carlucci shrugged. A man without legs, hip stumps surgically attached to a motorized dolly, wheeled past them, beating at his bare chest, mouth open in a silent scream.

  “I talked to a couple people,” Carlucci said. “They both agreed this is worth pursuing.” He paused, shrugging again. “They also agree that you have the only real chance of getting to Rattan.”

  “I wonder how much of a chance that is,” Tanner said.

  “That’s a bad attitude.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “We’ll work together on this. Partners.”

  “You going into the Tenderloin with me?”

  “No. You know I can’t do that. I’ll do everything I can from out here.”

  “Logistical support.”

  “Something like that.”

  Tanner looked up at the rooftop boundaries of the Tenderloin. The steam columns, almost pure white and coherent when they first emerged above the buildings, rose quickly toward the sun, coming apart and breaking into a scatter of dirty colors. What kind of real help could Carlucci give him from out here?

  “So I go into the Tenderloin and find Rattan,” Tanner said. It wouldn’t be the Tenderloin itself that would be dangerous; it would be what he had to do to track Rattan. He smiled. “Sounds so simple.”

  “Okay, so it’s not simple, but yeah, that’s what you do. Find him, and if he’s got the real stuff, make a deal.”

  “How high can I go?”

  “Christ, as high as you have to. If it’s for real, they’ll come up with the money. The police and the city have a real public relations problem with this guy.” Carlucci grinned. “The mayor says this guy’s generating a very high ‘hysteria quotient.’ ”

  “Hysteria quotient? What bullshit.”

  “You got it. They’re choking out a lot of that nonsense right now, running scared. We’ve got an election coming up in four months, though why anyone would want to be involved in running this city is way the hell beyond me. But that’s also why they’ll come up with as much money as they have to.” Carlucci’s grin transformed into a frown. “But one thing won’t go. No way the murder charges can be dropped, not for killing cops. Never happen.”

  “Rattan won’t ask for that,” Tanner said. “He’ll know.”

  “You give the guy a lot of credit for a cop killer and drug dealer.”

  “He’s smart, Carlucci. How long you guys been trying to find him?”

  Carlucci grimaced. “Fair enough.” He looked over at the True Millennialists, who were now huddled around the mound of rubble, hardly moving, chanting in low voices. “Goddamn freaks.” He turned back to Tanner. “You’re going to need money just to get to him.”

  Tanner nodded. “I’ve got a little.”

  “Enough?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Not even close.”

  “Day after tomorrow, go by the garage and see Lucy. She’ll have whatever I can dig out of slush.”

  Tanner thought about asking Carlucci if he was giving Lucy anything else, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Carlucci had a strong sense of family, and would probably resent any suggestion he was cheating on his wife, even as a joke.

  The sun blazed down through the haze, enervating him. But it’s a dry heat, he told himself. “Do we still have people inside?”

  “A couple,” Carlucci answered.

  “Wilson?”

  Carlucci shook his head. “She pulled out last year. Got blown and barely got out alive.”

  “Menendez?”

  “He didn’t get out alive.”

  “Koto?”

  Carlucci smiled and nodded. “Yeah, Koto’s still inside. He’ll never come out. Loves it in there. Told me he wants his ashes scattered over the streets at midnight.” The smile faded. “I’ll tell you how to reach him, but don’t go anywhere near him except as a last resort. Too many years invested to risk blowing him. You can go to Francie Miller. You know her?”

  “No.”

  “She’s good, she’ll take care of you. Everything you’ll need on her will be with the money.”

  They sat awhile longer in silence. Across the plaza, a trio of Rollers, headwheels spinning and flashing green lights, had faced off with the True Millennialists, and the two groups shouted back and forth, an exchange that to Tanner seemed almost ritualistic in its tone and cadence.

  “You don’t have to do it, Tanner. It’s not your job anymore.” He paused. “You don’t have to do it.”

  Tanner gave him a half smile. “Sure I do. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is.”

  “Guilty conscience?”

  “No. But I don’t need one.” He stood. “I’ll see you, Carlucci.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “Sure.” He glanced over the True Millennialists. The Rollers were gone, and the Millennialists were now settling down on their pile of rubble, as if they were going to sleep. They seemed to be at peace. Then Tanner looked one more time at the armored upper reaches of the Tenderloin, sun glinting off metal and glass, and started for home.

  THIRTEEN

  TANNER BEGAN THE night in the Financial District. With the blaze of light from all directions it was nearly as bright as day, though the light was cleaner, white and sterile as it reflected from shining alloys, polished stone, dark glass, and bleached ferroplast. Streets and sidewalks were fairly busy even at this hour—between foreign market hours and the security of the checkpoints, the District never closed down anymore; it only slowed its pace a little at night.

  Tanner was still uncomfortable from the checkpoint run. He had never become accustomed to the body searches, and without a permanent pass there was no way to avoid them. He’d had to put up with the searches even as a cop—only those stationed within the District got the passes. On the other hand, Tanner thought, he didn’t really want a permanent pass to this place. He did not like the Financial District and did not like most of the people who worked here.

  Tanner pulled his raincoat tight, though there was no rain yet—an attempt at regaining some comfort. The raincoat was a marvel, coated with some kind of semi-permeable membrane that kept the water out, but actively breathed, kept him almost cool even in the damp heat.

  As Tanner moved through the crowds, he noticed the glint of metal on flesh all around him. A lot of men and women appeared to have metal prosthetic limbs or facials, but Tanner knew that most, if not all, were fakes. It had become a fad, a fashion trend. Faux Prosthétique, Alexandra called it. Money people had taken to wearing the metal add-ons and coveralls like jewelry or makeup—put them on in the morning, take them off at night. Very expensive—they had to be custom fitted to allow full limb function—but not permanent. Like rub-on tattoos, Tanner thought.

  He climbed the steps leading to the massive glass doors of the Mishima building. Workers streamed in through the doors, the evening shift coming on for the opening of the Tokyo and New Hong Kong exchanges. Tanner noticed that none of them wore metal—Mishima Investments strictly forbade any fakes.

  Tanner stepped through the high doors and approached the security desk. A visitor’s pass complete with his photo was already prepared for him, and after a quick and polite identity check he was passed through to the elevators.

  When he emerged into the open fifty-eighth-floor reception area, Tanner was enclosed by a solid hush of quiet. A wide expanse of pale carpet, sand walls, and low furnishings surrounded him. At the matte black reception desk on the opposite wall sat a tall, dark-haired woman wit
h a silver metal face. Tanner had never seen her before, and the shining metal disturbed him. It was not a mask; the polished metal contoured to the woman’s skull was her face. He wondered if it had been elective.

  “Mr. Tanner.” The woman’s voice, emerging from between metal, segmented lips, was soft and cool. “Mr. Teshigahara will see you now.”

  The wall to her left swung open. Tanner walked toward the opening, and as he passed the woman he thought he heard a long, low hiss. He turned to look at her, but she was facing the elevator, silent and unmoving. He turned away and went through, the wall closing behind him.

  Two of Teshigahara’s office walls were all glass; through them was an expansive view of the bay and the Golden Gate. The wall through which he’d entered was fronted by a series of cherry-wood cabinets; behind their closed doors, Tanner knew, was a bank of television and computer monitors. In front of the last wall was Hiroshi Teshigahara’s desk. Teshigahara sat behind it, immaculately dressed in black except for a white shirt. His thin, black tie was tastefully streaked with silver, nearly matching the streaks in his hair.

  “Mr. Tanner,” he said.

  “Mr. Teshigahara.” Always so damn formal, Tanner thought.

  Teshigahara stood and walked to the largest of the windows, facing north. Tanner joined him, gazing out through the glass. Almost directly ahead, out in the bay, the bright lights of the casinos on Alcatraz pulsed in the night, their reflections flashing off the choppy waters around the island. The Golden Gate Bridge, intact once again, was a beautiful lattice of amber and crimson lights spanning the entrance of the bay.