The Radioactive Redhead with The Peach-Blonde Bomber

by John Zakour

  I grumbled and touched the button on the com. The preview screen came up on the wall monitor and I saw that it was Electra. I smiled and officially answered the call.

  “Hi, hon.”

  Electra’s image flashed onto the full screen and she smiled back at me.

  “Hola, Chico. Que tal?”

  “As well as can be expected,” I said. “You look pretty chipper this morning.”

  “Morning? Zach, it’s two-thirty in the afternoon.”

  “Is it?” I said, looking uncomfortably at my bathrobe. “Then I guess I’m not dressed appropriately, huh?”

  Electra’s smile broadened. She always enjoys it when I get flustered.

  “Rough night?”

  “Let’s just say that the service at the Kabuki Palace Theater leaves a little to be desired.”

  The com-tone sounded again.

  “DOS, I got another call.”

  “Let HARV answer it.”

  “Unfortunately, HARV is indisposed at the nano. Hang on; I’ll get rid of them.”

  Every com these days comes standard with call screening. Unfortunately, a few years ago, HARV overrode the screening software so that he could personally handle all calls directly through his system. He’s a lot more efficient and he is better at screening out the less important (and sometimes downright malicious) stuff. The downside is that when HARV is off-line I have no screening device, which wouldn’t be a problem if I lived in a perfect world where everyone who called me was my friend.

  “Zachary Johnson? It’s Bill Gibbon the Third from Entertainment This Nano.”

  Alas.

  Bill Gibbon is a well-coiffed talking head entertainment reporter (whose career I unknowingly boosted a few years back). Based on past experiences, it’s never a good thing when his face appears on my screen. This time was no different as the next seven words illustrated.

  “Am I too early for the press conference?”

  “Press conference?”

  “To announce your new reality series on Faux.”

  “Announce what?”

  “Let’s Kill Zach. The press conference is today, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no press conference.”

  “You mean I’m getting an exclusive?”

  “No. There’s no exclusive either.”

  “Then how do you plan to promote the show?”

  “I’m not promoting the show.”

  “But you admit that there is a show.”

  “That’s not what I said!”

  “Well then you better clarify that last statement, Mr. Johnson because I’m going live with this news in two minutes.”

  “Listen, Gibbon.”

  The com-tone sounded again.

  “Hang on.”

  I put Gibbon on hold and brought up the next incoming call. To my surprise, it was Sexy.”

  “Hi, Zach.”

  “Sexy!”

  I’m not sure if I was saying her name aloud or just subconsciously blurting out the first adjective that popped into my head.

  “You’re looking good today, big guy. No ill effects from last night’s action?”

  “None to speak of,” I said, trying to be professional, which is hard to do in a ratty four-year-old bathrobe.

  “I guess that stuff happens to you all the time, huh?”

  “More often then I’d like,” I replied.

  “Listen, Zach, I hope I’m not being too forward here,” she said, “but I have to tell you that you were amazing last night. Really heroic. It was thrilling to watch. You were old-school hot.”

  She was shy, almost coquettish with a Lolita-esque delivery that was so alluring it was guilt-inducing.

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “So, anyway,” she said, “and this is a little embarrassing, but if you’re not busy today, I was wondering if maybe …”

  The com-tone sounded again, this time to remind me of the calls on hold (one of them, of course, being Electra).

  “Wow, that’s bad timing,” I said. “Sexy, hang on. Okay?”

  I stabbed the com-button to change calls.

  “Sorry about that, honey …”

  “I’m flattered, Mr. Johnson,” Gibbon replied smugly, “but I don’t fraternize with my interviewees.”

  “DOS. Don’t flatter yourself, Gibbon.”

  The com sounded again. I rolled my eyes and stabbed the receive button. Thankfully, the face of my good friend Tony Rickey popped onto the screen. Tony’s a captain with the New Frisco Police Department. He’s a great friend to have, especially in my line of business. He can’t say the same about me but he’s still my friend, which I think says a lot about him.

  “Tony!”

  “Hi, Zach. Are you busy?”

  “Sort of. Can I put you on hold for a nano? I have Sexy Sprockets on the other line.”

  “You have who?”

  I stabbed the com button and changed the calls.

  “Okay, Sexy …”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Electra purred. Then she saw the surprise on my face and the purr became slightly more growl-like in nature. “What’s going on, Chico?”

  “I’ll tell you in a nano,” I said, stabbing the com button again.

  This time I waited until I saw Sexy’s face on the screen before I spoke.

  “Sexy?” I said, still a little flustered. “Where were we?”

  “Look, Zach, I know I’m being forward here but after last night …”

  “It’s okay, Sexy. I’m flattered, really I am …”

  “… I’ve just been thinking about you since then …”

  “… but we have to be realistic here …”

  “… I think it was fate that brought us together …”

  “… You’re a wonderful woman …”

  “… I guess what I really want to say …”

  “… But the thing is that …”

  “… I’d like to hire you as a bodyguard.”

  “… I already have a girlfriend.”

  The long, awkward pause that followed, to my mind, could have been measured with a sundial.

  “What was that?” Sexy said, nearly swallowing her gum.

  “Did you say bodyguard?”

  “Did you say girlfriend?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Whoa, Zach, did you think I was asking you out?”

  I stuttered for a nano or two, not saying anything that remotely resembled words before finally blurting out the only thing that came to mind.

  “Hold on. I have another call.”

  I blindly stabbed at a com button.

  “Any comment, Mr. Johnson?” Gibbon said.

  I stabbed another button.

  “Zach, a warrant has been issued for your arrest,” Tony said.

  I stabbed another button.

  “Zach, what’s going on?” Electra asked.

  “Oh you know, hon, just the usual morning … wait a nano.”

  I stabbed the com button again and brought Tony back on the screen.

  “There’s a what?”

  “You were involved in a shootout at the Kabuki Palace last night?” Tony asked calmly.

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “No offense, Zach, but I’ve heard that before. No one was hurt but the owner is suing for damages.”

  “He’s what?”

  “The Oakland PD report says that the dining room and the kitchen were destroyed along with a good portion of the hoverport.”

  “Those Kabuki droids attacked me as part of a pilot for a reality-based series!”

  “I have to hand it to you, Zach, after all the years I’ve known you,” Tony said, “you still manage to come up with excuses that surprise me.”

  “I’m serious Tony.”

  “Then it’s true? You were in a gun battle in the restaurant last night?”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “And the restaurant was full of bystanders?”

  “Whom I was trying to protect.” />
  “From Kabuki actors?”

  “They were droids and they were trying to kill me.”

  “Did anyone have a gun or a blaster? I mean, aside from you.”

  “The droids had laser swords. And I got hit with a samisen.”

  “A samisen?”

  “It’s kind of like a banjo.”

  “And that’s when you drew your gun and started blasting?”

  “Tony!”

  “Zach, you have to admit, this sounds kind of bad.”

  “It was a staged event. It was a carefully orchestrated attempt on my life as part of a show that Rupert Roundtree is trying to get me to do. He wants to kill me for entertainment.”

  “You know, I might pay to see that,” Tony said, shaking his head.

  “The show’s called, Let’s Kill Zach and … wait. Hold on. Let me conference someone in here.”

  I stabbed the conference button and brought Gibbon into the call as well. The monitor went to split screen between him and Tony.

  “Tony, this is Bill Gibbon from ETN. Gibbon, this is Tony Rickey from the NFPD.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Gibbon said. “Will you be one of the people trying to kill Mr. Johnson?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility,” Tony replied.

  “Gibbon,” I said. “Tell Tony about the show.”

  “The show?”

  “The reality series on Faux called Let’s Kill Zach.”

  “Are you saying that the show is real?”

  “Of course it’s re …”

  I stared at Gibbon for a nano then looked past his image at the studio set in the background behind him. I realized that he was now netcasting live.

  “I, um …”

  Gibbon’s eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly in a smile, waiting for me to say the words, to confirm the existence of the show to the public and paint myself into a public relations corner.

  I looked quickly back at Tony and I could tell that he was beginning to see the big picture and realize the spot I was in. That’s one good thing about Tony; he’s known me so long that nothing surprises him anymore.

  “Zach, do you want to call me back?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” Gibbon said loudly, “you were saying something about a new reality series? Care to elaborate?”

  And then, as they say, things took a decidedly unexpected turn (for the worse).

  The words “Upgrade completed. Systems back online in five seconds,” scrolled across my eyes.

  “About time,” I muttered.

  4 … 3 … 2 … 1.

  “What was that you said, Mr. Johnson?”

  I opened my mouth to speak. I don’t remember what exactly it was I was going to say but it doesn’t matter because I was beaten to the punch.

  “He said, Mr. Gibbon, that it will be a MAC day in DOS before Zachary Nixon Johnson works with a proto-scum network like Faux or before he makes any announcements to a tired old newshound like you whose head contains more botox than gray matter. So go jerk yourself a soda, Gibbon, and don’t call back until you grow a backbone.”

  The words were throaty and silken, purred rather than spoken, and they carried sensuality and strength that made my neck hairs stand up.

  Then a well-manicured female hand reached around me and hit the terminate button on the com. As Gibbon’s surprised image disappeared, my eyes traced the hand back to its owner, a woman who looked as though she’d just stepped off an old dime store paperback cover. My jaw dropped so far that I could taste my own shoe leather.

  The surprise was not so much from the woman’s beauty (which was substantial) but because I recognized the all-knowing smug expression on her perfect face. And although my brain simply refused to register what was happening (or how difficult my life was about to become) I managed to put my fear into words.

  “HARV?”

  5

  “It was a setup, Zach. Roundtree obviously convinced the restaurant owner to press charges against you in order to put you on the spot. That way you either agree to do the show or they frame you for starting the shootout. The stunt with Gibbon was probably orchestrated from the start. They’re trying to box you into announcing live that you’re doing the show. Once you announce that the show exists, they’ll spin the story every which way they can and before you know it, you’re fighting I Married the President for the eighteen to forty-nine audience on Thursday nights. Thank Gates I came back online when I did, you big lovable lug.”

  As if in a dream, I calmly turned my attention back to the com where Tony, eyes agog and mouth agape, watched us from the view screen.

  In quick succession and with the fewest words possible I brought the three remaining calls up on the com and signed off.

  “I’ll call you back.” (Tony)

  “I’ll call you back.” (Electra)

  “I’ll take the job.” (Sexy)

  “Good plan,” HARV purred. “We’ll work out a deal with the restaurant owner. We’ll pay for the damages and he’ll drop the complaint. It will cost a lot, but with Sexy Sprockets as a client, we should have plenty of wealth to cover it. I guess I should net with her people and set up a sit-down for the details on the job.”

  “HARV?”

  “Yes, Zach.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “Nice of you to notice, big guy,” she said with a wink. “And by the way, please call me HARA. It’s a little more sassy.”

  I have had nightmares in my lifetime. You don’t live this long doing the kind of work that I do without amassing a good batch of mental images that haunt your mind. But HARV as a woman blew all of my preexisting nightmares right off the map.

  And when I say “woman,” what I mean is “bombshell,” because that’s the image that HARV, I’m sorry, HARA, had chosen to project.

  I’ll start with the curves, because there were a lot of them. More than should be on any normal female body, but all of them finely sculpted. The shapely legs were long as well and clearly visible thanks to the knit skirt that slid gracefully up the thighs when they moved. Thin-waisted, delicate-shouldered, lean, strong arms, the body had it all. I should mention the breasts, I know, but I’ll need a few more years of therapy before I’m fully ready to put that type of detail into words. Use your imagination. Just think “perfect” (and then think harder).

  The face was exquisite with a peaches-and-cream complexion and lips like ripe fruit, full and red. The eyes were big and brown but still retained the know-it-all kind of glow that I’m sure HARV couldn’t have erased if he’d tried. The face shape was a bit of a composite of Bacall and Stanwyck. Sexy and powerful and I had to give HARV credit for going the tough broad rather than straight cheesecake route for role models. Oh, and there was red hair. Cascades of it. Thick and silky and seemingly gently lifted by a perpetual breeze. We’re talking Rita Hayworth/Gilda movie poster here.

  Like I said, bombshell. Nuclear bombshell.

  And yet it was HARV.

  “What? I mean, who? How?” I stammered.

  “I think what you really mean,” HARV answered, “is why.”

  I nodded my head. “Why would be a good place to start.”

  HARV smiled, turned smartly on a stiletto heel and sashayed back down the hallway.

  “Then let’s start in the office,” he said. “I think you’re going to need to sit down.”

  “Among other things,” I said as I followed.

  We went into my home office and I plopped myself into the office chair. I was feeling worn out even though I’d been awake for only ten minutes. HARV took position at the corner of my desk and then hopped up onto the wooden frame, one leg crossed over the other at the knee and skirt riding mid-thigh. I rolled my chair back a couple of meters and tried hard not to stare at the holographic flesh.

  “I’m sensing that you’re uncomfortable,” HARV said.

  “I think the term freaking out is more accurate,” I replied.

  “Look, Zach, it’s quite simple really …�
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  “Hold it,” I said, silencing her with a raised hand. “Let’s get Randy on the vid. He should hear this firsthand. Odds are I’m not going to be able to accurately describe it.”

  “You’re the boss,” HARV said with a smile and hopped off the desk.

  A nano later, Randy’s carrot-top head appeared on the wall monitor over my desk. He was diligently at work on what looked like a hoverboard, which covered most of his workbench. He didn’t really look up as he answered but I’ve come to expect that.

  Randy is another old friend of mine who I’ve come to rely upon quite heavily in my business. He’s a gadget guy, the best inventor/designer on the planet. When I first decided to become a PI many years ago, I spent a lot of time hanging around Randy’s lab looking for new tech that would give me an edge over my PI competition (not to mention law enforcement—but you didn’t hear me say that). Back then, Randy would let me borrow a new toy every once in a while. It worked out great but I began to feel as if I was taking advantage of our friendship. I confessed that to him one day over lunch and he laughed so hard that he fell off his chair (which he does anyway once or twice a day, but out of sheer clumsiness rather than glee). It turns out that he was feeling guilty about using me as a beta-tester (guinea pig) and didn’t want it to ruin our friendship. Some may say that our relationship is mutually beneficial. Some may say it’s parasitical. The important thing though is that we’re still friends (and I get my toys).

  “I’m hoping this will be quick, Zach,” Randy said, keeping his eyes focused on his work. “I’m backed up on filling an order for Faux.”

  “More Kabuki droids?”

  “Teen X-Treme, actually. The Kabuki droids were destroyed by some idiot actor who didn’t know he was on HV …” His eyes went wide and he turned to the screen. “Wait a nano how did you know …?”

  “You might want to rethink the ‘idiot actor’ part,” I said.

  “That’s funny. No one told me that you were starring in the show.”

  “No one told me either. So we’re even,” I replied. But let’s talk about it later. Right now I have bigger problems if you can believe that.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said with a smile. “The Teen X-Treme hoverboards have some killer apps. He looked up at the monitor and his eyes went wide for a nano. Then his mouth dropped open.