Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  “In a wham-wham?”

  Mixer nodded.

  “Careful,” Paula said.

  Mixer looked at her, smiled. “Always.” He leaned forward, kissed her warmly on the cheek, then stood. “I’ll be in touch. And don’t talk to Tremaine.” Before she could say a word, he was off and walking away, his right hand still working at the crushed coffee cup.

  Paula watched him stride up the street, slipping in and out of the crowds until he turned a corner and was gone. She looked down at her own coffee cup, which was still half full and steaming. Some days, she thought, life is just one fucking mess after another. She set the coffee on the ground beside her, got up, and headed for home.

  NINE

  WHAM-WHAM, ALL right. Mixer hadn’t been stupid, he’d pumped himself full of neutralizers before coming in, but the air in here was so gassed he felt like he was swimming through it, and the neutralizers were barely holding their own. He kept getting these sharp, intense flashes of desire, but the desire never locked onto anything specific; the neutralizers were doing their job. Mixer wondered what the gases were targeted for: booze, fireweed, gambling, booth time, smoke, heavy tipping. Probably all of the above. Without the neutralizers he’d be broke, fucked up, and out on the street in less than an hour. Which was, of course, just what some of the people in here wanted.

  The wham-wham was underground in a Tenderloin subbasement warren. Mixer worked his way through the crowd in a maze of ion poles, cubicles and booths, tables and minibars, music pounding through dim colored phosphor lights. Close to capacity. There was just enough room to move from one spot to another without having to touch someone if you didn’t want to.

  Mixer was looking for Chandler, or if not him, then his proxies, Karl and Skeez, the freakoid twins. One or more of them were supposed to be here tonight, but Mixer almost hoped that if Chandler himself wasn’t around, he wouldn’t find the freaks. Bad news, those two.

  The music was a loud, heavy machine dub, maxed out on the bass, and Mixer felt like he had bone boomers strapped all over his body. He should have taken aspirin along with the neutralizes; he was going to have a hell of a headache before too long.

  Mixer moved over to one of the minibars, bought a bottle of Beck’s, then wandered through the crowd, watching faces, latching onto snatches of conversation.

  “...something burning inside his head...”

  “Style, man, kicks and style...”

  “...and he was taking his clothes off, enough to make you lose your breakfast.”

  “...blood rushing up his neck...”

  “Yeah, give me your slots, I’ll bang your head...”

  “...rush...”

  “... slide, baby, into that body-bag ...”

  “...rush...”

  “Give. Give me those kicks, you ...”

  “...RUSH...”

  Rush, all right. Mixer stopped listening, letting the words wash through him with the pounding of the dub. A slow, high guitar was cutting through the heavy bass now, fine, fine stuff; he could just grab a seat somewhere, drink his beer, and listen. But he needed to find Chandler.

  Chick got himself offed, and Chandler disappeared at the same time. Could be coincidence, but Mixer didn’t believe it. Not when Chick had been trying to set up a deal of some kind with Chandler—wouldn’t say what, just that it was big. Mixer didn’t think Chandler had killed Chick, but there had to be a connection.

  He passed a booth with its door still open. Inside was a naked man wrapped in a body-bag—a full body neural net—twitching and shaking on a cot, mouth open and drooling as the net sparked and sputtered. Fuck me, Mixer thought, no one should have to see that. He pulled the curtain shut and moved on.

  Next to the booth was a gambling alcove, all the spots occupied. One woman was winning big, but she looked sick—apparently she was here to lose, maybe even go broke; she sure wasn’t happy winning. The others were a mix, some of them pleased, some as sick as the woman. All of them appeared to be losing. That was one of the things that made a wham-wham interesting to Mixer—you never knew who would want what, and watching them was always a discovery.

  “Hey, spikehead!”

  The voice came at him from out of the noise and crowd and lights, and Mixer wasn’t sure he wanted to find the source. The voice was vaguely familiar.

  “Spiiiiiiikehead!”

  From his left. Mixer stepped around an ion pole, static raising his hair for a moment, and saw the two freaks in an open booth, drinking from tall, fluted glasses. Karl, who leaned back against the booth wall, was six and a half feet tall; when he’d lost his right arm, he’d replaced it with a batch of three-foot-long metal chains that hung from his shoulder. Like Hook’s croc, you always knew when Karl was getting close—clink, clink, clink. Skeez was shorter and stockier, with one eye that was a bright green glow-globe. Lots of stories about how that happened. He was sitting forward, saluting Mixer with his glass.

  “Hey, spikehead, have a seat,” Skeez said.

  Mixer tossed his half-full beer into a trash barrel and moved forward to within a few feet of them, but remained standing. “I’m looking for Chandler,” he said.

  Skeez laughed, and Mixer swore the green globe in his eye got brighter.

  “Chandler doesn’t want to be found,” Karl said. He shrugged his right shoulder and rattled his chains. “He’s gone to ground, says you should have gotten the message.”

  “When?”

  “At the Caterwaul. A ghost message.”

  Mixer shivered inside, remembering that freaky, invisible presence on the eleventh floor, the window being pulled shut after he jumped. Ghost messages. He wouldn’t be surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “I got the message.”

  “But here you are looking for Chandler,” Skeez said.

  “I got the message. I just didn’t know what it was. Now I do.”

  Skeez slowly shook his head. “Not good enough.”

  Mixer started to back away, but Karl was too fast, on his feet and rushing forward, dipping and swinging the chains up and around, across Mixer’s shoulders, wrapping around his right arm. Which was the exo. The chains clanked on the exoskeleton and Mixer grabbed them in his augmented fingers, twisting out and away from Karl, unwinding himself, but hanging onto the chains. Then he jerked the chains with everything he had, which sent streaks of pain down his back, but also pulled Karl off his feet and sent him sprawling across the floor.

  Mixer still had hold of the ends of Karl’s chains, was getting ready to drag the guy into a wall, when he glanced at Skeez. Skeez had a cattle prod out, pointed at Mixer.

  “Drop the chains,” he said. Mixer did. “We’re going to have to make sure you’ve got the message,” Skeez said. “Chandler insists.”

  “I told you,” Mixer said. “I’ve got the message.”

  Skeez shook his head again, smiling. “Chandler’s given us free rein.” Karl struggled to his feet, hand on the table, and rattled his chains a few times. “We can have all the fun we want,” Skeez went on. “As long as there’s no permanent damage, nothing that can’t be surgically corrected.”

  Karl started toward Mixer again, grinning, then abruptly stopped. The grin vanished, along with Skeez’s smile, and they were both looking past Mixer.

  “He’s mine,” a voice said.

  Mixer turned to see a tall, stunningly beautiful woman standing just a foot behind him. Her hair was a glistening auburn, and her clothes were a dark, deep blood-red. “You’ll come with me,” she said, looking at Mixer.

  Mixer looked back at Karl and Skeez. Both looked pissed as hell, but they didn’t object, they didn’t say a word. Skeez even sheathed the cattle prod and laid it across his lap. Mixer turned back to the woman.

  “I can go with you?” he said.

  “You will go with me.”

  Mixer didn’t like the sound of that, and he had no idea who this woman was, but going with her had to be better than having the shit pounded out of him by the two freaks.

  “All ri
ght,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The woman hooked her arm through his and led him away from the freaks. They worked their way through the wham-wham, and people moved to make way for them.

  Uh-oh, Mixer thought, what didn’t he know about this woman?

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Saint Katherine,” she replied.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly,” St. Katherine said, smiling.

  Before Mixer could move, he felt the collar whip around his neck and lock up. A jolt went up into his head, white lights exploding behind his eyes. Oh, fuck me, Mixer thought. Then there was another jolt, harder, his vision blacked out... and then there was nothing.

  TEN

  LATE TUESDAY MORNING, the air conditioning kicked back on. Carlucci looked up from his desk and stared at the wall vent; he watched the bits of whirling dust, listened to the clicks and whirs and squeals of obsolete machinery trying desperately to come back to life. He sat without moving, waiting for a cool wash of air, some relief from the heat and stagnation, but all he really noticed was the stench of burning oil, a smell the air conditioning always seemed to have in this building. The relief would come eventually, he knew that, but for now all he got was the stink. Everything back to normal. He left the fan running.

  Carlucci looked down at the crumpled sheet of yellow paper on the desk—the list of names Paula Asgard had given to him. He should be working on the other two murders, Butler and the mayor’s nephew, the two “real” cases at the top of his list. But he couldn’t get the Chick Roberts case out of his mind. Fuck it, he thought. He picked up the phone and punched up Diane’s number.

  “Info-Services, Diane Wanamaker.” That wonderful, throaty voice.

  “Diane, this is Frank.”

  “Frank. The man of my dreams.”

  “Right,” Carlucci said. “There’s never been a man in your dreams.”

  Diane laughed. “True enough. What can I do for you?”

  “Let me buy you lunch.”

  “That I can do, man o’ mine. I’m scheduled for twelve-thirty. That all right with you?”

  “Sure,” Carlucci said. “Want me to come by?”

  “No, I won’t put you through all that. I’ll meet you out front. And Frank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take me somewhere nice.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ah, yes.” She sighed. He could almost see her shaking her head. “I don’t think you even know any nice places.”

  “Twelve-thirty, in front of the building.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  Carlucci put the phone down and picked up the sheet of yellow paper. He read over the names again, waiting for one of them to emerge from the others, carrying with it some special meaning, setting off a flash of memory or insight. Nothing happened. He took a pen and added Chick Roberts and Paula Asgard to the top of the list, then folded the sheet and put it in his wallet.

  Carlucci sat on the concrete steps in front of the station, waiting for Diane. The sidewalks were swarming with the midday crowds, every bench and available seat occupied by men and women eating their lunches. The air was heavy with the heat and damp, the sun glaring through thin, mustard-colored clouds overhead. The city was still waiting for the first cool-down that was supposed to come with autumn; sometimes Carlucci wondered if one year the fall and winter wouldn’t even arrive, and the stifling heat and humidity of summer would just continue on without relief, relentlessly baking them all until everyone in the city went mad.

  Carlucci closed his eyes, and for a few, brief moments imagined himself at Pine Crest, on the shore of the lake high in the Sierras. He could feel the cool, clean air washing over him, could even smell the pungent aroma of pine needles and wood smoke. It had been years since he’d been there, far too many years since he and Andrea and the kids had stayed at Tony and Imogene’s cabin. Too many years since he and Tony had gone out on the lake before sunrise, the boat purring through the deep, cold water, surrounded by the dark green of trees as they headed for one of their secret spots for a few hours of fishing.

  A hand on his shoulder abruptly brought him back, and he opened his eyes to see Diane standing over him.

  “You looked like you were in heaven, Frank.”

  Carlucci smiled and nodded. “I was.” He got to his feet and tugged at his pants. “And you brought me back to earth. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry.”

  Diane was a beautiful woman in her forties with light brown curly hair; her large, round glasses were attractive on her, and her smile always cheered Carlucci. She was, probably, the happiest person he knew.

  “You look terrific,” he said.

  “I always look terrific.” Diane took his arm in hers and they walked down the steps to the sidewalk. “Where to?” Carlucci led the way through the crowd and into a stream of people flowing north. “Not far,” he said. “A few blocks.”

  “Have I been there before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God. Then it’s one of your holes.” But she smiled at him and squeezed his arm.

  Pine Crest. With the heat and humidity and the people and noise pressing in on him from all directions, he could almost believe that Pine Crest was nothing more than a fantasy, that it didn’t really exist. How long had it been? He hadn’t talked to Tony or Imogene in years, didn’t know if they even owned the cabin anymore. Was the lake still there, as cold and blue and deep as it had always been, or had the interior drought killed it off as well? He had no idea.

  Carlucci cut off the street and into a crowded, shop-lined alley. Two doors up they entered Pattaya Thai Café, one of his regular places. Inside was swirling air from half a dozen fans and a babble of voices even louder than the noise outside. One of the waiters looked at Carlucci, pointed at the ceiling, then held up three fingers. Carlucci nodded, then led Diane through the jammed maze of tables and toward the back.

  They had to go through the kitchen to get to the back stairs. “I remember this place,” Diane said, shouting over the hissing, sizzling, clanging noises of the cooks. “They must have a dozen health code violations in here.”

  Carlucci just shrugged and smiled and motioned her up the wooden steps. They climbed four cramped half-flights, and by the time they reached the top, Carlucci was breathing heavily and sweating.

  “You’re out of shape, old man,” Diane said.

  “Thanks a lot. It’s this damn heat.”

  The third floor was much quieter than the first, but it was nearly full as well, and they couldn’t get a table anywhere near the open windows. The circulation was better, though, and the air was almost comfortable. They sat at a table under a pair of carved shadow puppets mounted on the wall; Carlucci could not decide whether the puppets were preparing to fight or embrace.

  They ordered pork satay, hot and sour soup, lard nar rice noodles with shrimp, and Thai iced tea. Diane would eat at least as much as he would, but it wouldn’t go to her gut like it did to his. She was right, he was out of shape; he needed to exercise. Christ, there were times he felt like an old man.

  “How’s Lissa?” Carlucci asked.

  Diane smiled. “Still making me happy. We’re going to Alaska in a couple of weeks, ten days of camping in what’s left of the Refuge.” She shook her head. “Even after nearly four years together she worries about the age difference. But that’ll be fine. Our relationship may go into the toilet someday, but it won’t be because of the age difference.”

  The waiter came by with their iced tea. Diane picked up her glass, said, “Cheers,” then drank deeply. She set down the glass and looked at him.

  “So tell me, Frank. What do you need from me?”

  “Information,” Carlucci replied.

  “Frank.” There was irritation in her voice. “Just tell me.”

  “What I need, I need off-line, Diane. I can’t have Vaughn or McCuller or anyone know what I’m looking into.”

  “No record of a download, no trace of the
search itself, that’s what you want? Serious stuff, Frank.”

  Carlucci nodded. “Have you got a demon who could do it?”

  Diane smiled, shaking her head. “What you mean, is, someone who can do it, who would be willing to do it, and who can be trusted.”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “How important is it, Frank?”

  “Pretty damn important, I think, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “You think!”

  Carlucci didn’t respond. He took out his wallet and pulled the yellow sheet of paper from it. For a moment he hesitated; then he unfolded it and handed it to her.

  “I need whatever you can get me on these people,” he said. “Especially any connections to each other.” He almost asked her to concentrate on Chick Roberts, but decided it was better if he didn’t steer her one way or another.

  Diane studied the list, a frown working into her expression. She glanced up at him, back down at the list, then looked up at him again.

  “Frank, even doing an off-line demon run isn’t going to get you any more than what you’ve already got on these people.”

  “I haven’t got anything,” Carlucci said.

  She looked at the list, shaking her head. “Chick Roberts ... Tory Mango ... Boniface ... Jenny Woo ... I don’t know, maybe not all the names, but a lot of them. You’ve got what’s in the feeds. I can’t get you any more than that, Frank, even with a demon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s where you got these names, isn’t it?”

  “From where, for Christ’s sake?” Carlucci was getting that bad feeling in his gut again, burning through him along with his confusion.

  “The slug sublevel feeds,” Diane said. “For the mayor’s nephew’s case.”

  Oh, shit. Carlucci leaned back in his chair, looking at her. He didn’t want to hear this. He picked up his glass and drank deeply from the thick, sweet, creamy iced tea. The cold liquid felt like molten ice in his belly, solidifying. He set down the glass and shook his head.