Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  I look to my left; Nikki is getting back into the vehicle.

  I get into the mot.

  I tap Go on the dashboard.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “I shot her with a gevva dart.”

  I look toward the garage. I see two bodies rushing out the back door. No other movement.

  Nikki follows my gaze. “Don’t worry about the crew. No loyalty here. They were gone with their tools before Anton hit the ground.”

  Not entirely true, but true enough. I stare at Nikki with solid consideration. She is trustworthy but is also fucking problematic. “You scrambled her brain. Damn woman – how long were you planning this? Do you walk around with gevva darts out of habit?”

  “Out of habit, no. I came prepared today.”

  “What, you got one of those planned for me as well?”

  “Of course not. Relax.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. It’s about an hour from sunset. I glance over at Nikki and say. “You know that smell that knocked you out back at Anton’s place?”

  Nikki nods. “Yeah, what was that?”

  “River. She was running a drug lab as well as a chop shop.”

  “And you know about drug labs, how?”

  “I’m a detective, Love. I also have friends in low places.”

  A minute later, I park the mot, about two clicks from Anton’s chop shop.

  I pull out my digital bug check. I open the mot’s door and step out.

  “What’s that and where you going?” Nikki asks. She opens her door and gets out of the mot.

  “It’s a FIG. I’m looking for bugs. You know, tracking devices.”

  “You think Anton turned us out?”

  “I trust her as much as you did.”

  She pulls out a cigarette pack from her coat pocket. Yet, it was no cigarette she ejects from the pack. Nikki lights the joint with relish. She offers it to me. I decline.

  “That’s right, you’re working on keeping me alive. Not a good idea to have you trippin’. Silly girl.” She takes another hit.

  I have full bars on the FIG as I near the trunk. I open the trunk.

  “Find something?”

  “I think so.” I sweep the empty trunk. A green light appears as I hold the FIG at the upper left of the trunk. I don’t see anything. I run my hand over the fabric and feel a bump.

  Nikki hands me a penknife. “You have the cleanest trunk I’ve ever seen.” She takes a hit from her joint.

  “I travel light. Can’t say the same thing about you. Gevva darts, penknife, vial of kerosene.” I cut through the fabric, exposing the small gray device. I remove it. I check the FIG. The trunk is clean. I give Nikki her knife back. I hold onto the bug.

  Nikki and I get back in the mot and drive away.

  I stop next to a parked delivery mot. “Would you do the honors?” I ask. I hand the bug to Nikki.

  She takes the bug and steps out of my mot. The dashboard monitor captures Nikki as she attaches the bug to the underside the delivery mot’s bumper. She returns to the mot.

  We continue down the avenue as legion of personals scan us, then display items they know we want.

  8

  I pull out my flash drive and insert it into the port on the dashboard.

  The menu pops up and I select address book, logistics, security and music. Then press add. I reclaim the flash drive a moment later, when the task is completed.

  Nikki’s seat swivels towards the rear of the cabin, she reaches for her backpack. She opens it and removes her chrome laptop.

  The familiar, ding, as the computer awakens. Nikki’s link to the world is ready to serve but a second later, “Damn, that’s right, we’re not on the grid,” she says, annoyed.

  “No. You’ll have to pirate.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it.”

  “My I ask what you’re doing?”

  “Booking us a hotel room in the city. Unless you want to leave Manhattan.”

  “No. Let’s stay in the city.”

  “I hope you’re not averse to luxury.”

  “Bring it on.”

  “You got it. Five-stars comin’ at ya. The Bombay Plaza on CP West.”

  “Nice. I could use a massage.”

  “Stone, Swedish, Shiatsu, tantric or other?” Nikki asks.

  “What?”

  “What type of massage?”

  I think about. “Stone,” I reply.

  “Oh. What’s that like?”

  “Never had a stone massage before,” I say. “I know it involves heated stones and deep muscle work.”

  “Well, you’ll have to tell me about it. I’m going for the Pamper Me Well option. Three hours of bliss.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” I reply with a smile.

  Accept Destination pops up on the dashboard. I press the walking man icon. The countdown clock appears on the dashboard. “We’ll be there in under four minutes,” I advise Nikki.

  “Good. Our room is ready now.”

  The phone beeps. It’s Liz. I tap the talk icon. Liz’s pretty face pops into view on the mot’s windshield. “Hello Liz.”

  “Hi boss. So, you all right? I just turned on the TV and there’s an alert and –”

  “Seizure post for me and the mot. I know. I’m good. Got a new mot. And I’m using my last active matrix code so I need you to write a few new shadows for me.”

  “Will do. Anything else?” She looks calm.

  “You good to talk?”

  “Of course. I just got worried and all when I saw the report. No calls or visits from law enforcement as to your health and welfare.”

  “Good. Run a background check on one, Ezra …”

  I look to Nikki and without missing a beat she states, “Biconeer. Twelve forty-one Greene Street, Brooklyn.

  I look at Liz and say, “We’re very interested in his health and welfare.”

  “You got it.” Then Liz asks, “Is there anything that our new client needs?” Liz smiles as she looks at Nikki.

  “No, she’s good.”

  “Very well.” She hangs up and fades from view, replaced by the city.

  “How long has she been with you?” Nikki asks.

  “Close to three years. Liz is good people. And she’s a great partner.”

  “So she knows who I am? I actually have a file? I’m a client.” She made the word sound ugly.

  “Easy. That’s business. You know the drill.”

  She lights a cigarette.

  I could use one of those right about now. I pull out my pack. Get a smoke and light it. I take a slow drag.

  Nikki turns on the music. A preset program appears on the windshield.

  “I’m talking about the loss of human rights. This is a real issue! How can…” Nikki turns the channel.

  “No talk radio. Let’s dance.” Nikki dials in 990. I recognize the station logo. WBMB – The Bomb!

  It’s late afternoon so kids are rushing home from school. Adults are rushing home from work. Bars are packed with people who just want to unwind. The Bomb’s motto is Blast Away the Day! The franchise is built around Fabulous Athena DJ. She is always live from some trendy bar. She just shows up unannounced and rocks the joint for a few hours.

  “Hey dance whores! I’m Fabulous Athena DJ. And someone’s knocking at my door! Why it’s the loveable Kim Ace! Looks like Kim’s in love. Her new one is called, ‘Minute Mouse Wants Some Candy’. Stomp to this one, kiddies!” Fabulous Athena DJ commands her audience. And Nikki is her audience. The song is bubble gum break beats and slap candy guitar hooks with inane sugary haikus screeched from untrained vocal chords.

  Nikki is bouncing in her seat, car dancing, and smoking her cigarette with purpose.

  I think my ears are bleeding. Yet due to the hours of torture training issued by the marines, I can endure this manically musical assault.

  9

  We pull into the roundabout of the Bombay Plaza. Two valets approach my mot and open the doors for Nikki and I.

  “I
can’t believe you like that dance crap,” I say to Nikki.

  “I like to dance, Apollo. I like being alive.”

  We stroll along the purple carpet walkway then stop dead in our tracks. We look up in awe at the renowned Swarovski crystal double doors. The brilliant entrance is a four point two meters by six meters wide dedication to magnificent craftsmanship. At this distance from the great entrance, the hidden spotlights highlight a three meters by three meters delicately etched impression of the Swarovski icon, the resting swan. After a moment, we take one step forward and the Swan icon is no longer visible. It remains undetectable to the naked eye as we pass through the slowly, auto-opening (don’t touch the crystal!), double doors.

  The lobby is a deep, quiet, sophisticated landscape. Seamless construction marry a wall of virgin white turquoise to gleaming floors of gold-veined black marble. The open room is well lit but the light source is not visible. On the south wall, a shelf juts out just off center, lower left frame. A single orchid rests within a thick glass vase. A single fat air bubble suspended lower left of center mars the vase. One Wenson-designed couch placed alone in the south quarter of the lobby. To my knowledge Wenson has only designed nine couches. I estimate that item’s worth at about two millions dollars.

  “This lobby is beautiful,” Nikki says.

  “Yeah.” I reply. I point to the wall. “What’s with the painting?”

  Set high on the north wall is a large and infamous oil painting. A stark realized perspective of a pair of bloodied feet walking upon the restricted Glass Shore. The glass is cracked beneath the cut and bleeding feet as sea foam rushes over the crystallized ocean rim.

  “I noticed that. I thought ownership of any rendition of that event, especially the video, would land you in jail. I’ll ask the concierge when we check in.”

  I nod.

  “Oh, I only booked one room.” she states with a sexy pout of her full lips, as strands of thick hair rake her pixie face. She steps to the front desk.

  “Karen Davenport,” Nikki says to the smiling clerk behind the teak counter.

  “Hello Ms. Davenport. One moment please,” says the clerk as she consults her registry. She taps on her keypad.

  Two keycards eject from a thin slot in the counter top.

  “Thank you Ms. Davenport,” the clerk says with a warm smile.

  “What’s with the painting?” Nikki asks. And since it’s the only painting in the lobby, Nikki doesn’t’ have to point to it or say anything else.

  The clerk looks at Nikki, never loses her smile or grace as she answers. “The management understands the Administration’s views regarding that tragic event.”

  “And?” I say, waiting.

  “There is nothing more to say, sir. Enjoy your stay at the Bombay.”

  “Thank you,” Nikki and I say in off-unison.

  “Creep,” Nikki says as we walk to the elevators. “What the hell?”

  “This hotel must be owned by a strong corporation. You pay for privacy when you buy a room here. I didn’t know that about the Bombay.”

  “What do you mean?” Nikki says. A lift arrives. We step in. Nikki inserts her hotel key into the slot, then, removes the card. A moment later, the doors close and the lift ascends.

  I say, “The management of this hotel displays that painting, to me, it states they are obvious opponents of Gliddin’s party. So you can imagine they would get harassed all the time by federal agencies over any minor thing. So where other hotels buckle under the pressure of fines for failure to comply, I bet this business is reticent to allow their guests to be bugged. They can afford the fines.”

  She nods in agreement, then, says, “Twenty-seven hundred a night for our room.”

  The car stops and we get off. Our room is about a dozen steps from the elevator.

  Nikki waves the key card before the door. The door zips into the wall slot without so much as a whisper. The lights ease on.

  “Welcome Karen Davenport and friend.” Announces the warm female VOD. Nikki winks at me; then enters the suite.

  “Hello VOD. Play dance program,” Nikki says. A heartbeat later, drum and bass erupts from hidden speakers. Fabulous Athena DJ, the Dance Whore, blasts her way into our hotel room.

  “Hallelujah” – it’s raining men!” Nikki sings out. Then starts this frenetic, aerobic fit that hurts to watch. I sigh and enter the exclusive nightclub. The door shuts behind me.

  “The door is now secure.” VOD pleasantly states.

  Next time, I book the room. I program the music. I bet she already ordered dinner.

  “Room service awaits your attention.” VOD announces with genuine cheer. “Shall I open the door?”

  I turn to Nikki but she has lighted another joint and is busy kicking up the natty carpeted floor. I turn back to the door.

  “Yeah, open up.” I say.

  “Thanks, friend.” VOD replies.

  The door opens. A young man stands holding a tub with ice and two Champagne bottles. “C’mon in.” I say.

  The steward walks over and sets the tub in a gold wire pedestal. He turns to me with a smile. “Will there be anything else, sir?” His PayBay hangs from a thin silver cord attached to his belt, and he is about to present it to me to swipe my Lifecard, but I hand him fifty in cash.

  “Thank you sir,” he says with a polite, fat smile. “Don’t have to report this. Very cool. Let me know if you need anything at all. My name is Dave.”

  “My pleasure, Dave.”

  The young man leaves the suite with a bounce in his step. The door shuts with his departure. “The door is now secure,” VOD states with pleasant assurance.

  “Thank you, VOD.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I grab a Champagne bottle. It’s a Dom Pérignon Rose 99. Ouch. This is pricey. I grab the other bottle, a Bollinger RD Brut – the blue label. Another colossal price tag. I can’t help but smile as I hold a few grand in booze.

  “Are my WHORES sweatin’ yet?” screams Fabulous Athena DJ. “I’m gonna give you two seconds to find and finish your drinks. And girl in the blue dress, put your titties back in. Time’s up! Get wild buckaroos!” The beat changes, still thumping bass but less chaotic chops. I take advantage of the moment.

  “Oh dance whore – you wanna drink?” I hold up the champagne.

  “Hell ya!”

  I choose the ’88 Brut. I pop the top and pour two glasses. I drop the bottle back in ice then walk over to a sweaty Nikki. She smiles at me and stops popping about like a manic cheerleader.

  “VOD, play program Miles Davis, please.” Nikki says, and just like that, Dance Whore is out and ‘So What’ is on.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” VOD and Nikki say in unison.

  Nikki and I laugh and then toast VOD.

  Nikki collects her backpack and walks over to the mini office. She removes the files and sets them in a pile. She opens her laptop. Her fingers dance over the keypad. She grabs her phone and begins taking pictures of the files.

  She pats the chair next to her. “Have a seat,” she says.

  I sit. Sip champagne.

  “I’m scanning the docs.”

  “Yeah I got that.” I pick up the manila file folder. As I shift the folder in hand, my fingers detect a ripple on the back of the folder. I inspect both sides of the back panel. Something is there. A disc? I tear at the back panel but can’t find a way to free the thin disc.

  “What’s up?” Nikki asks.

  “I believe it’s a disc but I can’t work it free.”

  Nikki looks on, then, “I know what you need.” She stands up and walks across the room.

  I continue to fiddle with the disc. I can’t figure out how the damn thing is attached.

  Nikki returns. She holds out her fist. I open my palm and she drops an ice cube in my waiting hand.

  “Oh yeah?” I query as I study the ice cube, like it’s my first encounter with ice.

  “Yeah. Ezra liked science. Rub it over t
he area and you’ll see.” She has a modest sip of champagne.

  I rub the ice cube over the disturbance in the folder. The cold and wet initiate a rapid change. The disc is visible within a few seconds. In no time, the disc peels away from the back panel of the folder.

  “Voilà,” Nikki says.

  “Abracadabra right back at ya.” I hold the clear disc up for inspection. “How was it secured to the folder?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I have no clue but I know Ezra could tell you. I just remember that trick from a long time ago.”

  “Well didn’t you ask him about it a long time ago?”

  “Yeah, but every new thing I learn pushes something old out.”

  “Right. You know there are medications that would alleviate that problem.”

  “I’m sure there are,” she replies as she inserts the disc into her laptop.

  It takes a long time for her unit to recognize the disc.

  Nikki lights a cigarette, then sits on my lap. We get cozy and watch the monitor.

  The program starts. It’s a chambered conference. The camera’s POV is center, level, atop a dark and polished wooden table. Four men sit on the left side of the table, facing a bank of six wall monitors. Only two monitors are on and one of those monitors has the US presidential seal below it.

  The running time stamp reads: 2062 – July 15th. 11:41 EST.

  Neat white letters appear at the bottom frame of the monitor:

  War Room-Pentagon. Washington D.C. In attendance via vidcom from the Oval Office, Theodore Cresthaven, President of the United States of America. In attendance, via vidcom, NADD Commander Col. Paul Gliddin (former USAF). Live attendants: Defense Secretary, Ashton Greene; National Security Advisor, Admiral Gene Orison (USN); Security Council Pro-Chief, General P.G. Bradshaw (Army), C.G. Thorosen, Special Consultant to the President.

  The text disappears, save the time stamp: 2062 – July 15th. 11:43 EST.

  General Bradshaw smokes a cigar.

  “What’s our status?” asks the President.