“I don’t answer to you, shithead. Give me the name of the whore. I need it for those cases.”
“You’re not working either case, fat man. Only competent investigators are getting the call. Corrupt murderers like you don’t get brought in on the big cases.”
That set him off. He threw a big looping right hook at me, the kind of punch he might throw at a mouthy drunk.
I wasn’t drunk.
I stepped inside his punch and shrugged it off with my left arm while I gave him a hard shot to the gut with my right. I was ready to follow it up with something else, but he was already on the way down sucking for air. Bartram was a violent brute, but he was like a bad baseball team, soft up the middle.
“You’re... you’re… under arrest,” Bartram wheezed from the floor as he gulped for air. He rolled onto his side, red-faced and grimacing. “When I get you in a cell, I’ll show—”
“No one is getting arrested,” Blanc said forcefully. The young detective stood in the doorway of the bathroom, his needler in his right hand with water dripping off his face creating indigo spots on his light blue shirt.
“I heard all of it and saw only a little less,” Blanc said. “You are way out of line, Sergeant Bartram.”
Bartram’s right hand shot under his left lapel. I went at him and caught movement in my peripheral vision from Blanc. I hoped he wasn’t stupid enough to open fire with me on top of Bartram.
I slammed the fat detective onto his back and locked his right wrist in my hands while my right leg pinned Bartram’s left arm. It felt like I was sitting on an ugly writhing waterbed. I pulled his right arm up and out from under his jacket and saw he gripped a pug blaster in his fist.
I jammed my left index finger behind the trigger and rotated his arm to the floor, pinning it down. Blanc knelt beside us and grabbed the pistol. Bartram was crushing my finger every time he tried to depress the trigger.
“Flip the safety on,” I said.
The safety was a rotating lever at the rear of the weapon above the grip.
Blanc activated the safety and tried to wrest the weapon free, but Bartram was still fighting.
I grabbed him by the throat with my right hand and started to squeeze.
“Give it up or I put you out,” I growled.
He gave up and Blanc took control of the blaster. A part of me wished Bartram would have fought it out.
“Let me the fuck loose,” Bartram wheezed. “The sooner I get up the sooner I get to work burying you. Both of you.”
“Was that a threat, Sergeant? I know a few people in IA that might like to hear about this. Sergeant Blake would love to go at you,” Blanc said. The kid wasn’t intimidated.
“That bitch? She couldn’t make anything stick. It’s your word against mine.” His voice sounded like a hoarse bulldog.
“Rick is working with the police on the Savan case. You are not. IA might wonder why you are nosing around in his office making threats and drawing weapons,” Blanc said.
“I know some private dicks too, you punk,” Bartram spat. He was mad and still trying to win the argument. A smart guy would have clammed up by then and be coming up with something to cover their ass. “I even know some from the Spire. As big time as they come, Langtry. So stop thinking you got anything on me, kid. You’ll live longer.”
There it was. Langtry. I didn’t know if the kid intended to draw something out or not, but he did. Maybe Bartram was bullshitting, but I didn’t think so.
“I’m going to let you up, Bartram,” I said. “Don’t get energetic again.”
We let him up. He was seething but was trying to keep it down. Physically, Bartram was gassed and he staggered toward the door. He didn’t even ask for the return of his blaster. He paused in the doorway and looked back at us with a hateful glare. “You ain’t heard the last of this,” he panted. “I know tricks neither one of you are ready to deal with. It ain’t over.”
He lurched out of sight and a few seconds later he yelled, “It ain’t over,” from down the hall.
Blanc was still on the floor leaning against the sofa. “What do I do with his gun?” he asked, bouncing the piece up and down in his hand.
I smiled. “Give it to your captain or Weaver and let them give it to Bartram’s boss.”
Blanc chuckled.
“You going to IA about this?” I asked.
“I have to. Will you make a statement when Internal Affairs starts a case?”
“Yeah,” I said nodding. “Maybe it will fly this time. He pulled a gun on a cop. Most of your coworkers won’t like that. He’s nosing around in a case that is a headliner. The GCPD brass won’t like that. He’s in big trouble and he’ll have a hard time getting any support.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
“Sure thing. I’m glad you were here, Detective.”
“Me too. Why don’t you call me by my first name? Can you manage that?”
I grinned. “I suppose... Detective.”
He laughed. “Is that coffee ready?”
“Bartram interrupted me so I never even started. C’mon, I know a place nearby that knows how to brew a decent cup.”
Blanc got himself together and we left.
“Who is this Sergeant Blake you mentioned?” I asked as we went down the stairs.
“Varuna Blake. She’s IA, as I said. She taught some classes at the academy when I was there and we became friends. She’s caught some flak for pushing hard on some cases, but I don’t think she cares.”
“If she’s too effective they’ll move her somewhere else. That happened to Gene Dickerson.”
“He told me about that,” Blanc said. “He told Blake the same thing. He suggested she concentrate on the worst bad cops she can find and the chief might stay off her back.”
“Yeah, and the brass can say they are policing their own.”
A block up the street we stopped at a food cart owned by a guy named Andrew. He had two blocks of Houston Street to roam. A prime selling area. Street vendors had their own rules about territory. It was like a cross between mafia turf and dog territory, but without the mob hits and canine urination. Like a lot of semi-closed and specialized societies, the rules were known only to them, and they weren’t talking.
Andrew could brew a mean cup of coffee on that cart. I don’t know how he did it. He always said it was an old Arab trick, whatever that meant.
When we were finished Blanc decided to return to his office and tell his captain and Lieutenant Weaver about the incident with Bartram.
I went to the area near Lacey’s and asked around about the grey sedan. I found a few people who saw Savan get thrown into the vehicle, but nobody bothered to try and get an ID number. That was to be expected, but asking the questions still needed to be done. The beat cops skipped that step.
~~~:{o}:~~~
Chapter 4
on the QT News Service - Local, High Town
New Commander Assumes Duties over Security Forces Space Elevator Unit
Security Forces Captain Tom Redmond recently took command of the unit that performs security at High Town’s own Space Elevator. Word is Redmond is a stickler for discipline, but then again, are there any Security Forces commanders that are not? Welcome the good captain if you see him, dear High Town readers. If he ever removes the stick up his ass and walks among the citizenry, that is.
on the QT - True or not, we tell it first.
---o---
I went by Cassandra’s and asked Nan if anyone inquired about Sarah and she said no. I found that odd. The BluCorp security people and fake detective Sam Houston knew she worked at the place. If they weren’t nosing around Cassandra’s, that told me they were seeking her identity through other means.
It was late afternoon by the time I got back to my office. I was surprised to find nobody waiting for me. I was getting used to finding suits and cops lurking in the hallway.
Blanc called and told me he sent the paperwork to IA to get a case rolling against Bartram. He thought they’d want to
talk to me sometime in the next few days.
I decided to take a shower and change clothes. I’d been in that set of duds since the day before. I was just heading to the front door to lock it when ting-a-ling went the bell as the door opened.
A suit walked in. Another damned Spire suit, that was my guess. He had an offer for me.
“Mr. Johnson I presume?” he said as he entered.
He was an average looking man. Average height. Medium build. Medium complexion. Brown hair. Brown eyes. An average guy in a thousand credit suit.
“That’s right,” I said. “Have a seat.”
I walked behind my desk and sat down after him.
The guy had an air about him. Something in his eyes told me he could be dangerous under the right conditions.
“I have a business proposal for you. One you will find hard to pass up.”
I sighed. I’d heard this one before. “That so? Might I have your name?”
“My name is not important, and it might be better for the both of us if you not know what it is.”
“I see.”
“Now, the proposal.”
“The one I’ll find hard to pass up.”
“Yes, exactly,” he said. He acted like he was amazed I remembered what he said. “I understand you are privy to certain knowledge. Knowledge only a few possess. Knowledge that can enrich you greatly.”
“I’m always up for enrichment. Just what information do you seek?”
“A name, Mr. Johnson.”
“I know a lot of names. You’ll need to be more specific.”
“There is a young woman whose identity is being sought by many entities. Disclosure of that identity is what I seek, and for which you will be compensated.”
“I will save you and I some time and money. I do not know her identity. The police do not know. I have assisted in looking for her and it has been fruitless. More likely than not, she doesn’t exist.”
“Come now, Mr. Johnson. Rumors abound. Or is this a negotiating tactic?” He smiled. I guess he thought I was clever. “Very good,” he said.
He placed his briefcase on his lap and opened it. He removed something and closed the case, setting it on the floor beside the chair. He put a stack of scrip notes on my desk.
“That is five thousand credits, Mr. Johnson. Five thousand credits for just one name.”
“That is a great deal of money,” I said. “Would you be upset if I gave you a name that turned out to be a fabrication? Because that is what I would have to give you. I do not know the name. Rumors do abound, they almost always do. Very often rumors exist because someone wants to get paid for bullshit. If I find out she’s real, maybe I sell,” I lied.
He looked at me for several seconds, then took the scrip from my desk and put it back in his briefcase. He stood, and so did I.
“I am not sure that I believe you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I have reasons to think you do know the name, but I do not think you are lying. Perhaps you are just a very skillful liar trying to find the highest price. In any case, I thank you for your time. We may meet again. Good day.”
He left my office, I went to the window and saw him exit the building, and head north up Houston Street.
I called Blanc and told him what happened. I gave him a description of the guy, and told him I wouldn’t be surprised if the average mystery man paid him a visit. I think Blanc thought I was joking. I hung up and went to take a shower, after locking up the office.
An hour and a half later Blanc called me and told me he arrested a guy matching the description I gave of Mr. Average. He wanted me to come down to the police station and confirm he was the man that was in my office earlier. I told him I’d be right there. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.
I put on some decent clothes, grabbed a cab, and was at the police station less than half an hour later. The station is a stone’s throw from the Space Elevator Security Zone, if the thrower had a major league arm. Tourists would take pictures from the parking lot or ask to go up onto the roof of the station for a photo opportunity. It drove the cops nuts.
Despite the fact that the tourist bureau ran tours, provided pamphlets, and had information displays all over the area providing information about the space elevator, the tourists would pester locals with questions about the thing, expecting us to be experts. Locals would usually mutter something about non-equatorial elevators, Van Allen belts, or the advantages of avoiding geosynchronous orbit. It made it sound like we knew what we were talking about. The tourists were stupid enough to think experts walked the streets and the locals were often happy to pretend.
Blanc was waiting for me inside. “You know, I thought you were joking when you told me the guy might visit me,” Blanc said. “I was in my motel room and he knocked on my door. He gave me the same deal you said he offered you. He was surprised when I placed him under arrest.”
“Remember where you are and who your coworkers are, Bob,” I said. His face lit up a bit when I called him by his first name. He’d just made his first arrest, so he deserved a reward and that was the only one he was likely to get. “Bribery is so common in these parts that the suit took it for granted you’d sell if you had the goods. Who is he?”
“His name is Tom Rooney. He works for an attorney in Old Houston named Arthur Teasdale.”
“I’ve heard Teasdale’s name before,” I said. “Pretty high-profile.”
“That’s right. He has an office in one of the high-rises in Old Houston and lives in the Silver Tower. He’s got big time creds and even better connections.”
“So why is Rooney out nosing around in this case? How does Teasdale connect to this?”
“I don’t know, Rick. Maybe he doesn’t connect. Maybe Rooney is working for somebody else. I’m going to visit Teasdale’s office in the morning if you want to go.”
“Sure, but why are you going? You’re the cop he tried to bribe, or at least his man gave it a go.”
“Normally another detective would handle it, but I’m the only one assigned to High Town. Weaver wants us to see if there really is a connection to Teasdale.”
Blanc took me to the holding cell that contained Rooney. The cell had one-way plass panels so he couldn’t see out, not that it mattered to me. It was the same guy that visited my office. I signed the paperwork and that was that.
“Have you had dinner yet, Rick?”
“No. Some dickhead made me come down to the police station,” I replied.
He laughed. “I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it. Where are we going?”
“Well, if you’re buying... Flamingo Ray’s.”
He glared at me. “How am I supposed to afford that on my salary? Besides, how are you going to get us in there?”
“I have my ways, but my tux is at the cleaners, so let’s go to Pete’s.”
Pete’s doesn’t usually fill up until after dark, so getting a meal that time of day wasn’t difficult. They serve a limited menu, but it was good grub. A lot of it was traditional bar food, but they’d go full old-fashioned Texas if you wanted them to. You could get chicken-fried steaks, chili, barbeque, catfish, shrimp, fried chicken, or steaks. Some people think chicken-fried steak is just another kind of steak, but that’s not quite right. In many parts of Gulf City the chicken-fried steak is considered its own individual food group, a necessity for life. It wouldn’t have surprised me if there wasn’t a religion based on chicken-fried steak complete with a house of worship somewhere in the metroplex.
There was a singer at the bar named Jim Whitlock. He was going to be playing a couple of sets later in the evening. He played at Pete’s often. He’d been around a long time, played at a ton of shitty dives in all kinds of places, and had hundreds of entertaining tales about it all.
I ordered my usual: chili, cornbread, and a Mexican style beer with lime. Blanc went for the chicken-fried steak. Until then, I had wondered if he didn’t eat meat.
Whitlock came over to say hello and I introduced him to Blanc.
“Jim,
Bob Blanc. Bob, Jim Whitlock. Blanc’s a police detective,” I said.
“Cool,” Whitlock said. “You dig being a detective?”
“So far I do,” Blanc replied. “I’ve only been on the job a few days.”
“That’s okay. If you dig it, do it. If you really dig it, do it till you don’t dig it.”
“What if you don’t stop digging it?” Blanc asked.
“Then dig it till you die. Do it till you die. Simple, man.”
“But what—”
“No whats or buts, man. You’re making this way too complicated. Life’s complicated enough, it don’t need people helping.”
The man was a philosopher.
The next morning Blanc and I were on our way to Lone Star Tower, where Teasdale’s office was located. Rooney had made bail during the night and walked.
Blanc set the skycar down near the building and we went on foot. Had we taken a skycab we could have been let off at one of the upper level passenger decks, but since we were at ground level we would be taking the elevator to the 65th floor of the 75 story building.
The elevators in these old buildings always scared me a little. The things were more than 250 years old. I knew they were supposed to be very well maintained and the elevators were probably not the original pieces of equipment, but still, the things were 250 years old.
Teasdale’s office was what you might expect for a high-powered lawyer, tasteful and expensive in its furnishings. Blanc flashed his badge at the receptionist who was seated in a semicircular cubicle that guarded the double doors that led to the offices. He explained to her why we were there. She told us in friendly tones that he could see us as soon as he concluded a meeting with some clients. Behind her on a shelf were numerous pictures of children, presumably hers. I knew enough not to ask.
We sat down on a plush sofa in the waiting area, and waited. About twenty minutes later a pair of tough-looking guys came out of the doors near the reception cubicle and walked past us, giving us the eyeball. I pegged them as ex-military or soldiers of fortune, probably working for one of the mercenary units masquerading as security companies. There were a few of them in Gulf City.
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