by Frank Rich
Rob folded his arms tightly. "Either one of ours goes with you or no deal."
I stared at him. His jaw muscles tensed with defiance, he looked down his sharp nose at me. I knew he wanted me to refuse; he wasn't the least bit excited with the prospect of my leading his precious revolution. "Okay," I said. "Where's the lift point?"
"There's an abandoned airfield above the suburb of Rulison," Marlene said.
"I know it."
"There's a group of hangars on the north end of the field."
"I'll be there at 7 a.m. the day after tomorrow. When do I get my advance?"
"The money will be deposited in your Party Bank account tomorrow morning," Rob said.
"I'll need it today."
"Tomorrow morning." His jaw started to tighten again.
"It'll be there within an hour," Marlene said.
"Grand." I stood up and shook hands with her. I offered my hand to Robert. He stared at it.
"Thirty grand today," I said. "The rest when the job is done."
Rob worked up a tentative smile and took my hand. "Seems like an old-fashioned way to seal an agreement."
"It's an idiosyncrasy of mine. This way I won't feel bad about killing you if you renege on our deal."
Rob paled and tried to pull his hand away. I squeezed until he began to squirm. "Remember what I said," I warned.
I let go and Rob cradled the violated hand to his chest. "Jesus, we are on the same side, aren't we?"
"As long as everyone plays it square."
Rob pointed at the check on the table. "What about the check? Don't think we're going to pay it."
"I'll get it." I reached into my coat pocket and dropped Cassady's bagged hand on the table. "Sorry, but I haven't anything smaller."
"Jesus Christ!" Rob cried, drawing back from the table. "You're a monster!"
"We'll pay the check, Jake," Marlene said. "Just please take that away."
"People interested in throwing revolutions shouldn't be so squeamish." I left the hand on the table and walked. Marlene caught up with me at the door.
"Why did you change your mind, Jake?" she asked softly. "Every time I think I have you figured out you turn completely around."
I stared into eyes that were looking for a hero. "I'm doing it to get in good with you," I said. "I figure if I take Denver down, I'll be in like Flynn."
She tried to smile and looked as if she wanted to say something. When she didn't, I pushed the door open and left.
4
There were dozens of veterans' bars in the City. The corporate wars and the World Party's struggle for dominance that ensued had left a heavy residue of men who knew war on a personal basis. Most of the bars' names reflected the wave of existentialism that followed each great conflict, and each tended to cater to a specific group; one might cater to tankers, another to paratroopers or rotor pilots.
I knew of only three frequented by skimmer pilots, a reflection of their high casualty rates. I asked around the Road to Nowhere on Third, and the Fall of the Valkyries on Hayward without success.
Which left the Smoke Out. The term was military slang for when a skimmer pilot lost his nerve, fired all his rockets and miniguns simultaneously and hit full reverse, a cure for a tight situation.
Creaking ceiling fans churned the thick smoke in lazy circles above the half-dozen isolated patrons. The door shut behind me with a loud scrape, and not a single head looked up. I chose a bar stool next to a narrow white-headed man. I didn't have to look for the circular red welts on his neck to know he was a squeeze freak. His shaking hands, his pale skin, his empty eyes said it all. Squeeze did to a man what smack, crack or whack couldn't do. It ripped the life right out of him and left him breathing.
The burly barman raised his eyebrows. I ordered a beer. When he came around with it, I said, "Nice place. Who does the decorating?"
"Everyone wants to know."
"You worked here long?"
"I own it."
"So you must know all the regulars."
"I must."
"Do you know a skim pilot named George Kulowski?"
"I don't know any names. Just scars and habits."
"Then this should be easy for you. He's a large, heavyset man with a child's face. He has no hair. Half his right ear is missing, there's scar tissue under both eyes and evidence of a bad patch-up job on the top of his head."
"Believe it or not, that could be one of five people. Most vets are a walking collection of scars."
"He was programmable."
"A sockethead?" He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I know him."
"Do you know where I might find him?"
"Maybe. Why should I tell you?"
I dropped a fifty-cred square on the bar. "He's an old friend."
He looked at the plastic. "You could be a bogeyman. A lot of my clientele have bad social habits. If I hand out information to anyone, I'll lose all my business."
"George and I served together. I want to give him a job." I put another fifty on the bar. I could sense a head turning to my left.
The barman shook his head. "We live by a code of honor here. Give me your name and number and I'll pass it on if he stops by."
I could tell I wasn't going to get anywhere, at least not with him. I picked up the creds but didn't bother leaving my name and number. If I didn't find George that night, I'd have to find another driver.
I stepped outside, leaned against the wall and lit a vitacig. Fifteen seconds later the squeezer scuttled out. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked left and right.
"Looking for me?"
He wheeled around then pretended not to see me. He walked a half block down the sidewalk, threw back an important look, then leapt into an alley.
When I got there the junkie started his dance.
"Hell, I know you ain't no bogeyman, your horns ain't long enough." He cackled madly and hopped from foot to foot, his hands flapping in front of him, his head rolling left and right.
"You know George?" I asked.
"01' Sockethead George? Hell yes, I know ol' George! We've shared more drinks than Irish uncles. Hell yes, I know ol' Georgie!"
"Where is he?"
"Well now, I noticed you offered ol' Tom in there not one, but two fifty-cred bills for the very same information you are now asking of Sammy."
I took the hundred out of my pocket, and his eyes pounced on the plastic squares. "Okay, Sammy, the same deal stands. One hundred creds if you show me where he is."
He fixed me with distrustful eyes, then said, "There's a squeeze hooch in a back alley off Sartre where he likes to go when he's feeling a little down, you know?"
Dread settled in my belly. "A squeeze hooch, huh? Take me there."
"Sure, sure, but how do I know you won't just rug me when we get there?" He danced back a few steps then forward.
"I'll give you half now and half when we find him." I handed him one of the plastic squares.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Les' go, les' go!" He shuffled out of the alley and broke into a shambling jog, looking back every few steps to see if I was keeping up.
Nine blocks later I followed him into a winding alley lively with drug traffic and prostitutes. The alley dead-ended at a black door lit by a bare blue bulb, the universal symbol for a drug den. A grossly overweight Oriental stood beside the closed door.
Sammy leaned close to me and whispered, "Let me handle ol' Choy here, I know just what he wants."
Sammy hunched close to the Oriental and began his wild jig. He bickered and harangued and shuffled his feet and gave great cries of dismay and moans of reproach, all the while bombarding the doorman with a hectic mix of Chinese and gibberish. The Oriental remained impassive, countering Sammy's expansive appeals with indifferent grunts. He understood perfectly well that when negotiating with junkies, time was always on the seller's side. Finally Sammy shook his head mournfully and traded the fifty for five black plastic balls the size of playing marbles.
"Can't get a good deal these d
ays," Sammy said, turning back to me. "The tongs have a near monopoly on the good stuff. C'mon." As he reached for the doorknob, the doorman seized his wrist.
"What's wrong, friend?" Sammy asked.
The doorman battered him with rapid-fire Chinese.
Sammy looked back at me. "He says you can't come in unless you buy some squeeze."
"Tell him to go screw himself."
Sammy appeared distressed. "C'mon. It's just ten a ball. You don't have to use it, you can give it to me. Just go with the flow."
"Tell this cheap pusher if he doesn't let me in I'll reach down his throat, grab his spine and fillet him like a goddamn fish."
"I can't tell him that!"
"Tell him."
Sammy told him, his broken Chinese weighted with apologies and reluctance.
The huge Oriental threw back his head and laughed, holding his jiggling belly with both hands.
"That isn't the effect I was looking for," I told Sammy. "Are you sure you told him the part about me filleting him like a goddamn fish?"
Sammy shrugged.
"Must have lost something in the translation," I surmised.
As the Oriental laughed, one of his hands nonchalantly dropped into a bulging trouser pocket.
"What the hell," I said, reaching for my wallet. "I'll take four."
I lifted my wallet and a switchblade out of my back pocket, careful to keep the wallet on top. I parted the Velcro to distract the bouncer with the stack of creds inside. Then, with one fluid motion, I transferred the wallet to my left hand, flicked open the knife and drove it to the hilt into the Oriental's jiggling belly.
He gasped and his right hand came out of his pocket wearing a pair of spiked knuckles. The blade made a small sucking sound as I pulled it from his stomach. He tried to stop the crimson flow, but it squirted between his fingers. He stared at me dumbly, the spiked knuckles forgotten.
"You need a doctor," I told him. "Find a doctor."
He looked at his wound, then started jogging up the alley, holding his stomach.
"I knew he understood English," I said. I folded the knife and opened the door.
"You're not a nice person," Sammy said behind me.
The stairs led to a large basement room lit only by a lava lamp dangling from the ceiling. Below this strange sun a dozen bodies held on to scattered mattresses like castaways on a troubled sea. They moaned, whispered and stirred in their narcotic sleep, stranded in strange, distant worlds. In one corner a grunting man straddled another, driving slow-motion punches into the bloody face of the man below him. The one on the receiving end didn't seem to notice.
"So this is paradise," I said.
"Yes, yes, this is it, all right," Sammy said, rolling a sleeper off his mattress. Once he had possession of the soiled pad, he dragged it to a corner and hunkered down, his back to the wall. Taking one of the black balls between forefinger and thumb, he squeezed it against his neck until the ball split open and a clear liquid dripped from the sponge inside. With a trembling hand, he spread the liquid in a wide circle on his neck to allow for quicker osmosis. As the fluid absorbed into the skin, a circular red welt marked its passage.
"Ah, yes, that's it!" he gasped, and hurriedly squeezed two more balls against his neck. "That is it!" He flinched as if cracked with a whip, and the two remaining balls fell to the floor. He gritted his teeth, and veins popped out on his neck and forehead. He coughed and shook like an old machine, his body racked with convulsions. He looked up at me and tried to smile, then vomited on his chest. He sighed, his eyes glazed over and his body went limp. An idiot smile spread across his face. "I made it," he mumbled, "I'm back." He closed his eyes and drifted away.
I walked around the dim room and stared into the faces of the fallen until only two remained. I stood over the pair. "Get off him," I said.
He stopped with a bloody fist raised and slowly twisted his face up to me. "What?"
"You're finished. Get off him."
"He jumped my squeeze, man. He's a lousy thief, and he's gonna pay for it." He grunted and the fist came down.
I took a step back and side-kicked him just below the ear. He rolled off and slumped to the floor. I squatted on my heels and stared at his victim. His face and bald pate ran with blood, and his features were too mauled to recognize. Blood bubbled from his mashed lips, and a tiny moan came from somewhere inside. I reached a hand behind his head and ran fingers over the skin, locating a circular steel socket embedded in his skull.
I poured half a flask of gin onto his face with no greater effect than washing off some of the blood. I parted his lips with finger and thumb and dribbled a shot into his mouth. He swallowed but didn't otherwise stir. I placed a hand tightly over his mouth and pinched his nostrils. His head jerked but I held on. Thirty seconds later he thrashed around like a landed fish. I let go, and he arched his neck up, sucking greedily at the dank air. His eyes, nearly swollen shut, cracked open a moment later. They found me and stared with incomprehension.
"Georgie boy," I said. "Look what's happened to you."
"Jake?" His whisper was just this side of audible.
"Yeah, it's Jake. I came to save you, buddy. Can you walk?"
"Yeah, yeah, 'course I can. Just give me a minute to come around the bend. Is there anything left in that skin?"
"Sure, Georgie." I tipped the flask to his lips, and he gagged and fought his way to his elbows.
"You trying to kill me?" he said with more spirit.
"I'm trying to save you. Let's go." I grabbed an arm and hauled him to unsteady feet.
We stopped in front of Sammy on the way out. I slipped a fifty-cred note into his shirt pocket.
"Put it in his mouth," George said. "Fat Choy comes through every hour and rolls the new arrivals."
"He won't tonight."
George walked as if possessed by a lethargic Devil, and I had to half carry his huge frame most of the nine blocks. I leaned him against the hood of my car and wiped the sweat from my face. We stood in silence for a moment. I lit a vitacig as George stared at the ground.
"I hate having you see me this way, Jake," he slurred. "I guess I really hit bottom this time."
I shrugged.
He pretended to stretch and draw in a great invigorating breath, as if he would now shake off the malaise that gripped him. "Well, there's the Smoke Out across the street. What's say we slip over for a few beers and talk about the good old days."
"I didn't pull you out of that hole to reminisce."
"I didn't think you did. Why, then? This your good deed for the week?"
I crushed the vitacig beneath my heel and put my hands in my pockets. "I was looking for a driver."
His head jerked up, and a spark jumped into lifeless eyes. "Driver? What kind of driver?"
"A cross-country run."
"Out of the City?" The spark became a flame. "Out of the City, Jake?" A ragged smile drew his tips apart. "I'm your man, Jake. I knew this was coming."
I shook my head. "No. You're not up to it."
"Now, Jake, you know I was the best skim driver in Firebase Tango. Everybody knew that."
I looked up at the overcast sky. "You seem to have gone downhill since then. Besides, it's a car, not a skimmer."
"What's the difference? A machine is a machine. I've the gift, I'm a natural."
"No, you're a junkie."
"I'm no junkie, Jake — I ain't no squeeze freak. I've been a little wrapped up in things lately, I'll admit that, but that was only temporary." He pushed himself off the hood and brushed at the front of his shirt. "Won't take much to get me back on track."
I laughed sardonically. "You talk just like a junkie."
"I'm serious about this, Jake. I'll go the dynacaine route. I'll stick to it. You'll see."
I took my keys out of my pocket and went to the driver's door. "That's just it, George. The dynacaine treatment takes two weeks. I have less than two days." I opened the door. "Good seeing you again, Georgie boy."
With s
urprising speed, George lunged forward and grabbed the front of my jacket. "I'll go cold turkey, you hear me? Cold turkey. Everyone knows it's the first twelve hours that's the worst. After that I'll be okay."
"You know what kind of hell that'll be."
He smiled a smile that spoke of the gallows. "Oh yes, I know about that, Jake. But I can make it, I know I can. All I need is a chance."
I stared at his swollen and bloodied face, looked into eyes burning with naked desperation, felt the hands on my jacket shake and hold on for balance, sensed him teetering on the edge. Was this how I appeared to Marlene and Rob six hours ago?
I took the hands that gripped my front and pulled them down. I released the left and held on to the right. "All right, George," I said. "You get your chance."
"You won't regret this, Jake!" He laughed and shook my hand clumsily. "You'll see!" He threw his hands in the air and whooped. "Let's jump over to the Smoke Out and celebrate with a few drinks!"
"We haven't the time. We have to find a place for you to dry out."
George started to frown, then covered it with a smile. "Of course, of course, business first." He ran around the car and jumped in the passenger side. I climbed in and started the engine.
"No matter what I say or do in the next twelve hours, Jake, you gotta promise not to let me quit. No matter what."
I looked over at him as we pulled away from the curb. "All right, George. Whatever you say."
* * *
George wouldn't stop screaming. I sat in the chair propped against the door upon which George pounded. On the hall floor around me were the lamps, mirrors and ashtrays I'd removed from the hotel room, weapons he could use against himself. I'd chosen a hotel on the lower end of Kafka Boulevard, in a part of town where a lot of screaming and violence wouldn't attract much attention. I'd made certain the room had a solid door and no windows.
I was trying to read a racy detective novel but couldn't get past the first paragraph. The chair shook with the brutal pounding, which upset my concentration. George made it worse by bellowing between each jarring blow. "Open this door!" Boom! "Or I'll rip off your head!" Boom! "And shit down your neck!" Boom! I turned to the door. "Keep it up," I warned, "and you'll threaten your way right out of the big celebration breakfast I have planned at Hawaiian Bob's House of Soy Cakes."