Destroying Angel

by Richard Paul Russo

  The waitress stopped by, refilled Carlucci’s cup, and poured more hot water for Tanner’s tea. Tanner bobbed the tea bag in the water, swirled it, watched the water grow slowly, slowly darker.

  “The coffee’s not that bad,” Carlucci said.

  Tanner looked at Carlucci’s cup; the coffee did not look any better than what he had tried, and he just shook his head.

  “You going back in tonight?” Carlucci asked.

  “Sure. What else?” He lifted the tea bag, watched it drip. “There are some other people I might be able to talk to, if I can find them.” He dropped the tea bag back into the water. “I don’t expect too much, to be honest. In fact, if you want to know the truth, I’m hoping to stumble onto something by accident more than anything else.”

  “I wish I had something better to offer.”

  “What about Koto?” Tanner asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Can’t we go to him, see if he can’t find a way to get to Rattan? He’s been in the Tenderloin all these years. I mean, now that I’m thinking about it, what the hell is he being saved for? Isn’t this important enough to use him?”

  Carlucci did not answer. He leaned back in the booth and looked out the window. A light mist was falling, swirled by gusting winds. Tanner waited patiently, watching Carlucci, drinking his tea. Carlucci turned away from the window, finished his coffee, carefully set the cup in the saucer, and finally looked at Tanner.

  “It’s not that simple,” he said.

  Phrase of the day, Tanner thought. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, “but you want to explain why?”

  “No. I can’t. But it is something worth considering. Let’s give it a few more days, and if we still aren’t getting anywhere we can talk about it again.”

  Tanner nodded, looking outside at the swirling mist. “All right. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight and we won’t need him.”

  O O O O

  Tanner did not get lucky. In fact, the night was a complete washout. An hour after he entered the Tenderloin, a freak monsoon-like storm struck, with heavy rains and gale-force winds, effectively clearing the streets. Tanner spent a couple of hours in a video parlor watching a program of five-minute riot videos intercut with a series of one-minute animations about a scrawny, ugly dog named Fifi.

  When the program ended, the storm still raged. Water ran in streams down the sidewalks and gutters, flooding at the intersections. Tanner left the video parlor, pushed through the wind and rain, down half a block and into a building, then up two flights of stairs to a music lounge. He took a seat at the window counter and ordered a beer. A slash-and-burn band was playing somewhere inside the building, the music blaring from speakers scattered throughout the lounge. The music was harsh and loud, frenetic, with only a hint of melody. It suited him, providing a wall of sound that gave him a sense of privacy as he sat at the window, watching the rain sweep through the streets. He nursed a couple of beers through the next two hours, enclosed by walls of music, glass, and driving rain.

  Around two in the morning, the storm ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. Tanner left the lounge and joined the throngs of people returning to the streets. The air smelled fresher, clear and crisp even in the heat. Windows, vehicles, pavement, lights, buildings, everything seemed sharper and cleaner, as if purified by the storm. Tanner wandered the streets, moving back and forth between the Euro and Asian Quarters, not really looking for anyone, just taking in the refreshed and invigorating feel of the streets.

  But then, around four, he got caught in a ground skirmish. Within seconds, barriers went up at either end of the block he was on, and there was no way out. Everyone in the street knew what the barriers meant, and they all got off the street as best they could.

  Tanner managed to get inside a noodle shop just before the doors were locked. The shop was jammed, and most people crowded around the front window to get a view of the action on the street. Tanner had no desire to watch people mauling each other. He moved to the back of the shop and sat on a stool at the bar.

  He spent the next hour drinking tea, eating a bowl of noodles, and talking occasionally with the cook, who had no more interest in the fighting than he did. The window spectators made noises throughout the skirmish, but Tanner paid no attention to them, paid no attention to the other sounds of the street that penetrated the glass and walls. Instead, he concentrated on the bubbling hiss when the cook dropped fresh noodles into a pot of boiling stock; on the fragrant sizzle of frying pork; on the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal when the cook turned off the flame under the teakettle.

  At dawn, the skirmish ended, and people returned to the streets. Tanner stayed in the noodle shop for a few minutes, finishing his tea. Then he got up, thanked the cook, and left.

  When he stepped outside the shop, the air had a different feel. It no longer smelled clean and fresh; now it carried the faint stench of blood, smoke, and charged sweat.

  Tanner stood on the sidewalk, watching the sky slowly brighten with the morning. He could see, in the gutter across the street, a splash of thick, darkening blood, flies already gathering above it. He did not want to move. It was time to go back to Hannah and Rossi’s, try to get some sleep before coming back here tonight for another run. Time. What did it matter where he went? Tanner remained motionless, hands at his side, waiting for the first appearance of the sun.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT NIGHT did not start out any better. He walked the streets almost in a stupor, without direction or purpose. He was hoping to see someone or something that would give him an idea; hoping for a flash of inspiration, a bit of luck.

  He spent half an hour wandering through the maze of The Bomb Shelter, glancing into the rooms and cubicles, turning down a wide variety of propositions. He did not know who or what he was looking for in the place, and he felt like an apathetic voyeur, observing people engaged in intimate acts but with no real interest in what they were doing.

  After The Bomb Shelter, Tanner checked half a dozen fang fights, thinking he might find the Barber at one of them, betting on his favorite wolverine or leopard. He saw lots of blood and flying fur and feathers, but no Barber.

  At the edge of the Asian Quarter he stood gazing at the building that housed the Gang of Four tong. It was very likely that they knew where Rattan was, or at least how to reach him, but there was no asking them. He would not be able to get an audience, let alone ask any of them a question. And of course even if by some fluke he could, no one would answer him.

  Tanner felt a tugging at his shirt and turned to see a young girl looking up at him. She was a Screamer, her lips smoothly, surgically fused together, with two trache tubes in her throat—one for eating, one for breathing. She was about ten or eleven years old. He wondered if, when she was old enough, she would want to undo what her parents had done to her. Probably not; most of them didn’t.

  The girl held up a clenched fist, rotated it, then uncurled her fingers, revealing a folded sheet of paper in her palm. Tanner took the message and the girl ran off, disappearing into the crowd. Tanner unfolded the message and read it—an address, followed by the words “Watch the sky.”

  He looked up and down the street, searching for a familiar face, for someone who might be watching him. He didn’t see anything unusual, no one he recognized. Who had sent the message? The answer to that was pretty damn important. Max? Dobler? Either one was bad news. Sookie or the spikehead? Probably not; they would have signed it. Someone who knew he was looking for Rattan? Someone after Dobler’s bounty? Most of the possibilities were trouble, but Tanner knew—he knew, damn it all—that he could not afford to ignore the message. For a moment he wished he had followed Carlucci’s advice and carried a gun.

  Tanner stood motionless, rereading the message as a new, hard-edged energy worked through him. Here it was, he tried telling himself, the break he was waiting for. But he knew that probably wasn’t true, this was more likely to get him worked over or killed.

  The address
was three blocks away. Once again he scanned the street around him, but still did not see anyone he knew. He refolded the note, stuffed it into his shirt pocket, and started off down the street.

  His stupor was long gone now, replaced by heightened sensations and blazing nerves. Everything around him had an extra shot of clarity around the edges, a shimmer of light. It was like being on speed. He even felt a little jumpy. Adrenaline rush. Tanner wished he could tone it down a bit. He felt just slightly out of control.

  When Tanner reached the address, he stood in front of a tattoo parlor that was locked shut, bars over the windows and door. He checked the note to make sure he had the correct address and street; he did. He banged on the bars, rapped at the glass, but got no response. He searched the window and bars for another message, some sign, and found nothing. There was a donut shop on one side of the tattoo parlor, and a juicer studio on the other, but nothing seemed out of place. The crowds and traffic around him were normal for the Tenderloin.

  Maybe it made sense. “Watch the sky,” the note said. Perhaps the address was just an observation point, a place for Tanner to be when something happened in the skies above. As long as it wasn’t death falling on him. He looked up, saw a sick green haze blocking out the stars, but again nothing unusual.

  A sound blasted the air, like an air-raid siren. Tanner’s chest tightened. He knew what was coming. Someone would soon be flying out a window. People in the street looked up, searching the upper reaches of the buildings on both sides of the street. Most of them, too, knew what was coming.

  The signal finally appeared—a black flag telescoped out from the roof of the building directly across the street from Tanner; it flapped gently in the breeze. People quickly cleared the sidewalk below the flag; even the street traffic adjusted, halting and clearing out that part of the road. People took up positions in doorways, on ledges, in windows, watching and waiting; a few people dragged café tables and chairs out onto the sidewalk and settled in for the show.

  This time, though he would have preferred not to, Tanner watched and waited as well. Whatever was coming, he knew, was meant for him to see.

  A window on the tenth floor opened. The street noise swelled for just a moment, then dropped quickly to near silence. Nothing happened for a minute or two. The air grew heavy and tense, as if the heat had jacked up a bit, almost pulsing through the night.

  A muffled roar emerged from the window, growing louder, then a large figure shot out headfirst. As the figure plummeted, still roaring, hands bound behind its back, Tanner saw that it was Red Giant. The roar continued all the way down, then ceased with a sickening crunch as Red Giant hit the edge of the street. His body shuddered once, then was still. Tanner could see blood already pooling around the man’s head, trickling into the gutter.

  No one in the street moved; the tension did not break. Tanner looked back up at the window. It remained open, and the flag continued to fly, which meant someone else would be coming. Tanner had a pretty good idea who was next.

  No cry, no roar this time. Max hurtled out the window, hands bound, back arched. There was no sound at all as he fell until, at the last second, his mouth opened and an explosive scream burst forth, only to be abruptly cut off by impact as he struck the ground next to Red Giant.

  No shudder, just a motionless, crumpled and broken form. Tanner felt sick as he stared at the two bodies just twenty feet away. Max’s face was crushed, his grafted mirrorshades shattered. He still could not see Max’s eyes, only a mess of flesh, blood, plastic, and bone.

  Tanner glanced up at the top of the building, saw the window close and the flag pulled in. He returned his gaze to the two crushed figures, but his view was soon blocked by crowds as people returned to their business and the street traffic resumed.

  Tanner felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the Asian woman with the tattooed tears. A new tear had been added to her cheek.

  “That’s taken care of,” the woman said. She took his hand in hers. “Rattan is ready to see you now.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SOOKIE FLINCHED AND shuddered when Uwe hit the ground. A couple of minutes later she jerked again when Max hit, and she had to turn away. She thought maybe she was going to be sick. She hated them both, and she wasn’t sorry they were dead, but... She breathed deeply, leaned her head against the brick.

  When she looked up again, she saw a woman talking to Tanner. The woman took hold of Tanner’s hand. Sookie was too far away to hear the woman, but Tanner didn’t look happy to see her. He didn’t give her a kiss or hug or anything. But he didn’t pull his hand away. Maybe she wouldn’t let him.

  The woman pulled Tanner back a few feet, then let go of his hand. She unlocked the door of the tattoo parlor and waved Tanner inside. The woman followed him and pulled the door shut. Sookie hurried down the street, stopped in front of the tattoo parlor, looked inside. She didn’t see anyone in the tiny front room. She tried the door, but it was locked. Sookie wrenched at the door handle, kicked at the door, but it just wouldn’t budge.

  Rats. She had the feeling he was going to be inside a long time. She also was pretty sure that when he did come back out, it wouldn’t be here. Somewhere else, who knew? Maybe not even the same building.

  If he came back out. That scared her, thinking about it. He needed someone watching out for him. Well, maybe not so much anymore, with Max and Uwe dead. But maybe still, looking for Rattan. She didn’t know who Rattan was, but Mixer said he was pretty bad. She just didn’t know about Tanner. She hoped he would be okay.

  A young Screamer grabbed hold of Sookie’s arm, pulled at her. Sookie resisted, and the girl yanked harder, dragging Sookie away from the tattoo parlor.

  “What?” Sookie said.

  The Screamer just shook her head. She let go Sookie’s hand, pointed at the tattoo parlor, and shook her head again.

  “All right,” Sookie said. She backed away from the tattoo parlor, then turned and worked her way through traffic across the street. A transplant crew was already set up, loading the bodies into their van. Lots of money was changing hands, and she didn’t see a single cop anywhere. Cold smoke rolled out of the van. The crew got the bodies lashed down inside and slammed the doors shut. They climbed into the cab, and the van pulled away.

  Sookie stared at the street and gutter, watching the blood. Some of the deeper pools rippled from traffic vibrations. Pieces of Max’s mirrorshades were scattered across the pavement, and she could almost see herself in one of them.

  “You still following him?”

  Sookie looked up, saw Mixer crouched against the building, watching her. She shrugged, walked over to him.

  “Who?”

  “Hah.” Like a dog bark. “You know, Sookie. You’re still following him.”

  “I guess.” She sat down next to Mixer. He took out a couple of cigarettes and gave one to her. Flicked open a lighter, lit them. “I’m worried about him,” she said.

  “You should be,” Mixer said. “He’s going to get himself killed. Which is why you shouldn’t be following him. You can’t help him, Sookie, but you’re liable to get yourself offed along with him.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Mixer sighed heavily. “I know,” he said. “But I know you, Sookie. Weird shit happens around you, you know that. And anyone can get into it around here. Just leave it alone, Sookie. Leave him alone.”

  Sookie nodded, looking at the tattoo parlor. She wondered how long it would take her to pick up Tanner again. She sucked in on her cigarette and settled in to wait.

  THIRTY

  TANNER STOOD ALONE in the corridor, waiting to be admitted to Rattan’s “sanctum.” That was what the woman had called it, though she had been smiling. He felt as if he were waiting for an audience with a king. Maybe that was how Rattan thought of himself.

  The corridor was short but wide, the walls dark gray cinder block. There were only two ways out—the door at the far end of the corridor, through which the woman had brought him, and the
door he now faced, which led to Rattan. The woman, whose name was Britta, had ordered him to wait in the corridor, then had gone through the door. He had been waiting fifteen or twenty minutes now.

  He could not be sure, but he thought he was underground again. The way in had been relatively simple, though extremely secure: multicoded door seals, body searches, radiation scans, and two elevator rides so smooth he had not been able to gauge distance or direction for either one. He and Britta had encountered only two other people; both were silent and thorough guards.

  The door opened and Britta appeared. “You can come in now,” she said.

  Tanner entered a large room filled with a cool, swirling fog of odorless smoke. The ceiling was high, close to twenty feet above the floor, and there was too much smoke to see how far back the room went. Through the mist, Tanner made out stretches of bamboo along the windowless walls, and the flickering light of torches. This was Rattan, all right. Theatrics.

  Absurd, Tanner thought. A machine was probably producing the smoke, swirling it about the room.

  Rattan was nowhere to be seen. Hidden in the mists? Tanner walked farther into the room and nearly stepped into a narrow stream of water that flowed silently through a curved channel in the floor. The channel was no more than a foot and a half across, maybe two feet deep.

  “Wait,” Britta said.

  Tanner stood at the edge of the channel and gazed about the room, searching through the mist for Rattan. On the right wall, set against a stand of bamboo, was a wooden bench flanked by two flaming torches. Toward the left, along the channel where it entered another stand of bamboo, was a second bench. He still could not make out the rear wall because of the smoke.