Noir

by K. W. Jeter

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t the smartest one I ever encountered.”

  “I suppose not,” said Turbiner. “I don’t suppose you bothered recording your little encounter with him, either. Even though that’s standard agency procedure, isn’t it?”

  McNihil made no reply. I should have-instead of doing the job on the cheap, trying to economize on the nonessentials. When he’d still been working for the agency, even the smallest field assignments he’d gone on had been secretly-and expensively-bugged and taped. Some of them, his prize hits, had even been converted by the agency into training videos, instructional adjuncts for getting new hires up to speed on the asp-head way of doing business. But recording cost money, especially with all the masking and counterfeed-suppression technology that had to be added on, to make sure that the pirates, with their funky but effective hair-trigger alarm systems, didn’t catch on to the fact that they were being taped in all their hard-evidence glory. Money that an effectively retired asp-head, doing a favor, might not want to tap into his own pocket to shell out.

  “All right,” said McNihil finally. “I didn’t record you, and I didn’t record the kid I worked over. What does it matter? As long as he was stealing from you, as long as he was violating your copyrights, his ass was mine.”

  This time, it was Turbiner who kept silent. He shifted in the chair so he could dig his wallet from his back pocket. Flipping the wallet open, he extracted a PDA card; its tiny display panel illuminated when he pressed the top right corner between his thumb and forefinger. With the edge of his nail, Turbiner scrolled down through the listed data.

  “You’ve seen this before.” Turbiner had found the entry he’d been looking for; he extended the card toward McNihil. “Standard issue, right?”

  Most writers that McNihil had dealt with, or the composers or other creative types, had something similar with which they kept track of their copyrights. He’d had this one in his hand on previous occasions, when he’d been checking Turbiner’s records against the agency’s central database. He glanced at the little screen, tilting it away from the light sifting in through the flat’s window blinds. “So what am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “Bottom of the file. Most recent entry.”

  A name that McNihil didn’t recognize. “Who’s Kyle Wyvitz?”

  “That’s the name,” said Turbiner, “of the kid whose brain is in that cable you just brought me.” The words had been spoken softly, no added emphasis required. “Your latest trophy job.”

  “Ah.” He could just about see it all now; the relaxation in McNihil’s bones and muscles was echoed by a similar expansion in time, the appreciable gulf between one second and the next. Just as the would-be pirate kid’s senses must have gone into slow motion as soon as the snaring hydro-gel had leapt up from the plastic cup; the way the small animal in the triggered leg-hold trap must have been able to study every tooth of the metal jaw slicing down toward its pelt and flesh. “And why… just why… would his name be here in your copyright tracking?” As if he couldn’t figure it out, already. “What’s that mean?”

  “Other than that you’re totally screwed?” Turbiner sounded almost sympathetic, as though he were in fact sorry to see the trap snapping shut. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

  “I know all sorts of things. Some of them I just learned.” He looked at Turbiner, as though seeing him for the first time, unoccluded. In the flat’s musicless silence, McNihil could almost hear the blood singing in his own veins. “I’m just interested in these particular details, that’s all.”

  “You can work it out.” Turbiner shrugged. “It’s all there. I keep very accurate records-you know that. Just read the listing.”

  He hardly needed to; nothing on the little screen of the card came as a surprise to him. Not now. McNihil scrolled across the tiny words and numbers, the black marks like legible flyspecks beneath his fingernail. Beside the kid’s name was a coded list of properties, old thriller copyrights of Turbiner’s early writing days; McNihil was familiar enough with the account at the agency to recognize them without using the hyperkeys. He knew which tides matched up with the numbers: they were all the ones that the Wyvitz kid had been peddling.

  McNihil drew his fingertip to the end of the line. The date for the licensing of the copyrights was barely forty-eight hours ago, the day that he’d gone up north on the rim to take care of this business. To do this favor for Turbiner. There was even a time stamp for the transaction: exactly when he’d been sitting in the theater with the kid.

  They were watching me, thought McNihil. “They” being the ones Turbiner had been working with, cooperating on setting up this little sharp-toothed trap. McNihil already had a good idea who they were.

  “The kid didn’t know.” McNihil looked up from the card and its info. “Did he? You used him.”

  A moment passed before Turbiner gave another nod. “Somebody did.” He reached over to take the card from McNihil. “I wasn’t in on that part.”

  “I’ll just bet,” said McNihil, “that the timing is exactly right on this one.” He laid the card in Turbiner’s outstretched hand. “A short-term licensing of your copyrights-what, ninety days?”

  Turbiner shook his head. “Thirty. I don’t like to let go of them for too long.” He opened his wallet and tucked the card back inside. “If I can help it.”

  “And it was all set up to go through with the push of a button, I imagine. Soon as they saw how the deal was going to go down with the kid.”

  A nod this time. “They got it on tape.” The wallet returned to Turbiner’s hip pocket. “I’ve seen it. You know, you really should’ve checked around for surveillance gear. Even before you walked in there.”

  “Well, I guess I didn’t know.” McNihil leaned back against the couch’s upholstery. “I didn’t know what I was walking into. I thought I did. But I was wrong.”

  “You were wrong.” Turbiner’s agreement was a simple stating of fact, uninflected by emotion.

  “Because if your records there are correct-”

  “They are,” said Turbiner. “Unfortunately.”

  “Then that means I murdered the kid.” He could feel his heart opening up, as though to some perfect, damnable grace. So this is what it feels like, thought McNihil. Absolutely. He could almost understand how people got into it, enjoyed the element of control being stripped away from themselves. At least you know where you stand. It might be rock bottom, but it was certain. In this world-he supposed it was in fact, had been all along, the kind of world that Turbiner and the ones like him had always written about-there was a certain comfort in that knowledge. “And I thought,” said McNihil with the barest fragment of a smile, “that I was doing you a favor. Something I didn’t have to do, but just because I wanted it that way. Por nada-or maybe just because I liked your books.”

  “Actually, you did do me a favor.” Turbiner picked up his own glass and then set it, empty now, beside the other one on the low table. “I got paid for the rights. Not by the kid, of course; as you said, he didn’t know what the hell was going on. He got used as much as you did. But the people who set the whole deal up-they had to pay me.”

  “Not just for the rights, though. They paid you for keeping quiet. At least until I was through getting connected over.”

  “But you’re not through,” said Turbiner. “There’s more to come. Once somebody is in your position, there’s always more to come.”

  McNihil didn’t need to be reminded about that. Even though there was still a part of the Wyvitz kid living, the cortical matter imbedded in the trophy cable, the little wanna-be pirate was legally dead. Or illegally, as the case now seemed to be. If the kid had had the rights to the old Turbiner titles licensed over to him-even if the kid hadn’t been aware that he had the rights, even if he mistakenly believed he was a thief and was bragging about it-then carving him up for the desired bits wasn’t a sanctioned agency operation. It was as much murder as if McNihil had gone out on the street and put the mu
zzle of his tannhäuser against the brow of the first person he ran into, and pulled the trigger.

  Real bad news for someone like him; fine distinctions like this made the difference between being an asp-head and an asshole, someone who’d stuck his foot so far into it that there’d be no extraction short of sawing it off at the hip.

  “You know… I was ready to leave a while ago.” McNihil pushed himself up from the couch. “Now I’m way ready.” Whatever buzz had been imparted by the alcohol had burned out of his system; a cold sobriety, cheerless as a gray post-insomnia dawn, crept through his veins. “It’s been… interesting talking to you. I don’t think we’ll be doing it again anytime soon.”

  “I can understand that.” Turbiner nodded slowly. “This sort of thing is pretty corrosive on friendly relations.”

  No shit, thought McNihil. There were other things he wanted to ask the man, things he could’ve said to him. But now there wasn’t time. By the sheer force of will, whether it left him one-legged or not, he’d managed to get both himself and the surrounding universe started up again; McNihil could even sense his heart speeding up, as adrenaline trickled into its fibers. Which meant that if he started running, the things pursuing him would kick into high gear as well.

  How much of the actual substance of time was left to him, he didn’t know. McNihil supposed he’d find out soon enough.

  “Take care of yourself.” Halfway between the flat’s living area and the front door, McNihil stood and gave a nod toward the other man. “You’ll have to. After this, I won’t be doing it for you.” He buttoned his jacket, as though in expectation of the chill winds he’d find outside. “I’m gone.”

  “Don’t leave just yet.” Another voice spoke, from the mouth of the unlit corridor that ran to the back of the flat. “As a matter of fact, we’ll really have to insist on your staying.”

  It was the voice he’d been expecting to hear. McNihil brought his gaze up from the figure in the sweet-spot chair. “Harrisch…” He nodded slowly. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Still seated, Turbiner glanced back over his shoulder. “Should I take a walk?”

  “Why bother?” Bearing his unpleasant knife-blade smile, the exec sauntered out into the living area. “You’ve been so helpful already; I’m sure you won’t be in the way. Besides-” Harrisch gave a shrug. “You live here, after all.”

  McNihil heard the front door open; he turned and saw other corporate types, a pair of them, come in. Not execs like Harrisch and the ones who’d been there that other time, standing around the late Travelt’s wide-eyed corpse. But thugs, refrigerator-sized and similarly intelligenced. They came to a halt, forming a wall with cheap suits and badly knotted neckties between McNihil and the exit. Small sullen eyes below bullet-headed brows fastened onto him and waited.

  “Well… I’m not going to connect around.” McNihil looked over at the smiling exec. “If I were carrying, it’d be different. But I left the tannhäuser at home.” He tilted his head toward the others, now standing with their arms folded across their bulky chests. “So you don’t need to drop the weight on me.”

  “No…” Harrisch made a show of considering the remark. “I don’t need to…”

  The thuggish types moved in and proceeded to take McNihil apart. Nothing fancy, sheer muscle and knuckle; knees to the kidneys, sweat-smelling forearms thick and corrugated as tree trunks, hard enough across the face to screw his neck around, a panoramic quick flash of the flat and its inhabitants as the one holding him up let go at last.

  He could almost admire their professionalism. Control, came a fragmented thought inside McNihil’s head; spread out on his back, he gazed up at the flat’s conduit-laced ceiling. He was waiting for the blood to fade out of his vision, as though the hallucinated spinning he sensed could draw it away from his eyes. They’d hurt him just enough to make their point-or Harrisch’s-but not so bad that he wouldn’t be able to function again.

  Which was Harrisch’s point. The exec leaned over McNihil, looking down at him. “That was for being rude. The last time we got together.” Harrisch let his smile fade, his voice dropping to serious as well. “When I offer somebody a job, I expect that person to give it a lot of thought. And not just lip off to me.”

  One of the company thugs gave McNihil a kick in the ribs. He could recognize the nature of the boot, its steel toe reinforced with a lump of depleted uranium; the guy would have to be big to walk around in footwear like that. The impact was enough to shock the contents of McNihil’s gut into his throat, but he managed to hold down the sour rush. Rolling onto his side, he spat a red wad of saliva and a broken tooth fragment out onto the floor.

  “And then-” Harrisch squatted down and looked him straight in the eye. “I expect him to take the job.”

  McNihil shook the last anesthetic fog out of his head. The bruises sang up along his nervous system, but he could string his thoughts together again. “It’s going to be hard… for me to get much work done for you…” His mouth had filled with blood again; he swallowed thick salt. “If I’m up on murder charges.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of your legal problems. You won’t even have to think about them.”

  That was what he’d expected the deal to be. If Harrisch and his crew of corporate lawyers couldn’t get him off entirely, they could delay it long enough for him to die of old age. Or at least long enough for him to figure out some other escape plan.

  “You know where we are.” Harrisch stood up, holding the thin smile over him again. “We’ll expect you bright and early.”

  McNihil closed his eyes and listened to the heavy tread of the pair who’d worked him over, heading toward the door and pulling it open for their boss. The door closed behind them and the flat was silent; another moment, and the stereo started up again. The chorus sang once more of resurrection, but he didn’t believe them.

  “What I’m not completely sure about…” McNihil spoke slowly, tasting the trickle of blood down his throat. “Is why you.” He raised one swollen eyelid and brought Turbiner into focus. “Why should you help connect me over.”

  In the sweet-spot chair, Turbiner dangled the remote control in one hand. “No special reason.” He gazed toward the invisible orchestra between the speakers, rather than at McNihil. “Or just the usual ones. They made me an offer. I needed the money. I’m not getting a lot of reprints; nobody’s really interested in old books these days.” He shrugged. “You know how it is. You gotta make your copyrights valuable one way or another.”

  McNihil lifted himself painfully into a sitting position on the floor. He wiped red onto his palm from his chin. The strange thing was that he couldn’t even manage to hate the guy.

  At the door, McNihil stopped as he laid his hand on the metal knob. “You know…” He looked back over his shoulder. “This is why nobody reads your old books…”

  Slouching in the chair, Turbiner raised his head. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s that noir thing.” McNihil pulled the door open, letting the darkness of the corridor outside stretch out before him. “People don’t have to go into your books for that world anymore. Now they live in it all the time.”

  After a moment, Turbiner slowly nodded, then turned back to the music.

  McNihil stepped out into the corridor and silence. But only for a moment; then he turned and walked back into Turbiner’s flat.

  Silence became total, the music over, when McNihil reached behind the stereo equipment and ripped the new trophy cable loose.

  “Now that’s just connecting petty,” said Turbiner, disgusted. “That’s just vindictive.”

  “That’s right, pal.” McNihil rolled the cable up into a tight coil and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He didn’t feel any better for having done it, but he didn’t feel any worse.

  “You know… that really does belong to me.” The old writer followed him to the door. “It’s from the violation of my copyrights. My books.”

  “Yeah?” McNihil halted; he glanced ov
er his shoulder at the other man. “Your books, huh? And what would somebody like me do to you right about now, in one of your books? Tell me that.”

  Turbiner didn’t have an answer. Or did, but didn’t want to say it.

  “Believe me,” said McNihil. “You’re getting off lucky.” Luckier than me. He pushed the door open and walked out, trying not to limp too much.

  PART THREE

  Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,

  Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!…

  Zertrümmert sei’n auf ewig all Bande der Natur…

  Hell’s revenge boils in my heart,

  Death and Despair blaze all around me!…

  Let all ties of Nature be forever broken…

  – The Queen of the Night’s Aria, from Die Zauberflöte

  by WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART, libretto by

  EMANUEL SCHIKANEDER

  (1791)

  FOURTEEN

  A MOVIE VISION OF GLAMOUR AND LUST

  Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

  “That’s funny.” McNihil found that funny, because the place looked like a doctor’s office. A real one, the way doctors’ offices looked in the movies stitched inside his eyes. He could’ve used a doctor, even though forty-eight hours or more-hard to tell in the perpetual night McNihil saw-had passed since Harrisch’s thugs had handed his ass to him. He’d spent the time since that occasion lying on top of the narrow bed in his unkempt apartment, in the same clothes he’d been wearing then and was wearing now. Every once in a while, he’d gotten up and headed down the hallway to the bathroom, he’d had to lean his arm and forehead against the wall above the toilet to remain standing. His urine had gradually faded from the color of cabernet to a light rosé. Even now, his bones and a good deal of his bruise-darkened flesh still ached; it’d been a big accomplishment to even try shaving before venturing out and coming to this place.

  There was another reason he found the question funny. “Somebody else,” said McNihil, “asked me that exact same question, just a few minutes ago.”