Fiddleback Trilogy 1 - A Gathering Evil

by Stackpole, Michael A.

  "Easy, Heinrich, you owe our mystery man here. He dusted a Reaper lab. Who knows what they were harvesting and selling for transplant."

  "Ja, good point." Heinrich turned back and led Rock into the maze of wide shelving units running from floor to ceiling.

  Their departure gave me a chance to look around. Aside from the obligatory portraits of Adolf Hitler, Evan Mecham and Tom Metzger, the place actually looked fairly normal. This section of the two-story building had no second floor, but a catwalk ran around the walls at roughly 12 feet. Armed guards roamed along the catwalk, carrying submachine-guns and practicing truly disdainful sneers.

  All of the Warriors I saw wore the same sort of uniform Heinrich had sported. Gray jodhpurs were tucked at the knee into gleaming cavalry boots. Black suspenders held the pants up, and only three of them wore anything more on their upper torso. Those three—one man and two of the five women I saw—sported gray T-shirts with a Nazi eagle emblazoned across the chest like a superhero insignia.

  The Warriors appeared to me to be uniformly lean. They wore their hair very short, with the men favoring the high and tight cut of special military forces or corporate security teams. The women tended toward longer hair or more stylish cuts, but none of them let their hair get beyond shoulder length. And, yes, of course, everyone had their hair bleached white blond.

  The odd thing about all of them—and it took me a moment to catch it—was that they had undergone some very subtle cosmetic surgery. On the men, the haircut almost hid it, but I could see how implants had been inserted beneath their scalp to give their skull more height. It literally made their foreheads look larger, which would have made them look smarter if not for the piggish ignorance in their eyes.

  The guns they carried were impressive. I don't know how I did it, but I identified them as Honeywell & Koch MP-7s. Like my Krait, those guns took 10mm ammo in their 30-round banana magazines. Heinrich had worn a sidearm instead of one of the MP-7s. I did not get a good look at it, but I guessed it was an antique Walther he kept more as a memento than because of its firepower.

  Rock and Heinrich returned quickly with the items I needed. The Bianchi shoulder holster fit perfectly and Heinrich had even strapped two loaded Krait clips into place on it. The Kevlar vest they showed me looked sufficient to stop anything this side of a big-game round. I grunted and tossed it on my seat.

  They brought me two pairs of boots, which was probably Rock's idea. The first was a pair of standard punk-issue Doc Marten's. I rejected them a priori and opted for the more appealing Schwarzkopf boots. They fit snugly, and I laced them up. As I did so, Rock wandered off and left me there with Heinrich.

  "You know, my friend, you should not think so harshly of us." He opened his arms and took his brethren in with one generous gesture. "We are here protecting what our people have earned in this world. You are not a stupid man. Being in that den, even for one night, would have told you what kind of people they are. They dilute us and drag all mankind down to the level of beasts."

  I finished knotting off my second boot, then stood slowly and towered over Heinrich. "By no stretch of the imagination am I your friend. What I saw in that home was a loving family doing its best to eke out an existence by any means possible. They are less a threat to you than, say, I am."

  I let my words hang in the air between us. Heinrich concentrated hard enough to make me combust by an act of his will, but I just got chills looking at him. A couple of his roving guards stopped to watch us, and the tension built as if we were in a crash-dive on a sub. I watched his eyes and read his desire to draw his gun and shoot me, but he knew I'd make him eat it.

  Rock arrived and folded his arms across his chest. "I go to make a phone call, and you two are at it again. Whatever am I going to do with you?"

  Heinrich stepped back and Rock tossed me a black windbreaker. "Good day, Stein. You need not bring this man back here again."

  "Chill, Heinrich, he's new in town. He has to learn the lay of the land." Rock reached into his pocket. "What do I owe you?"

  The Nazi rubbed the thumb of his left hand across his right palm in irritation. "$150, and the clips with bullets are my gift to you, mystery man." He accepted a handful of bills from Rock. "I hope you become smart enough that you do not need all of them."

  "Don't worry, Hank," I said as I winked at him. "I'll save the last clip for you."

  Once Rock had the Elite back on the road, he flicked the air-conditioning on high, looked at me and shook his head. "Now I know why Hal turned you over to me. He saw you as trouble from miles off."

  I pulled off the shoulder holster and followed it with the T-shirt. "I find it curious that the same Coyote who could inspire loyalty in Estefan or Garrett could condone your trading with racists."

  "Do you?" Pell's face took on a stern expression. "If you're so sharp, tell me, what did you learn while you were in there?"

  This is a game of one-upmanship you will lose, Pell. "Well, we can start with the dozen neo-Nazis I saw armed with some of the latest in military hardware. They were not wearing body armor, so they feel very secure in their hideout there. I further note that Heinrich would not have had the time to load the two clips in the shoulder holster, which means he pulled them from a bin somewhere. The Warriors of the Aryan World Alliance are very well financed and ready for a war. How's that?"

  Pell blinked twice, then doubtlessly put my observations down to luck. "Close enough for my purposes. If you saw that much, you know I'm very Protean. Coyote uses me to keep different groups happy. You saw what you saw, but I got into their armory and can write up a report on everything they have. If there's going to be a war between them and the Blood Crips, Coyote will be able to handicap it perfectly."

  Somehow I doubted "handicapping" gang wars was Coyote's purpose in Phoenix, but I said nothing as I pulled the Kevlar vest on and fastened it snugly over my chest.

  "Okay, you are a scout, and trafficking with the Warriors keeps them happy. Just because you're comfortable with them, don't expect me to become Heinrich's best buddy."

  "Hey, splash him for all I care. I've known Enrico Vitale since childhood, and I don't think he looks good as a blonde." Rock turned left onto 40th Street and headed north. "Look, that phone call I made was to another of Coyote's people. She's a whiz with computers and pegged your people as Carl Jackson and Billy Harris. They work for the Wheel of Life ambulance company. Their unit handled a call to Slymingtown two nights ago."

  I smiled grimly as I pulled my T-shirt back on. "How do we find them?"

  Pell let a triumphant grin twist the corners of his mouth up. "Jytte pulled Jackson's financial files and saw he spends a lot of time at the Du Drop Inn. He runs an open tab on his Digital Express card and happens to have opened one a half hour ago. A mile past Thomas and we're there."

  I nodded. "Excellent."

  "Look, when we get there, let me handle things. The Du is not a bad place."

  "No, they obviously cater to only the finest body snatchers."

  "Okay, okay, I can sense this hostility, and I understand it, but work with me. It's mostly a beer and billiards place, see? The folks there don't react well to violence."

  I narrowed my eyes and nodded. "It's your game, but I want results."

  "Good." Pell brought the Elite to a stop in front of what had started life as a squat triplex about four decades earlier. At one time I decided it must have gone for a western motif because of the broken wagon wheel on the exterior wall and the aged boardwalk leading to the door. If not for the Harleys chained to the hitching rail, I could have been on the set of a billion western mesmervids.

  As we got out of the car, the heat hit me like a punch. I tucked my T-shirt and the tails of the vest into my jeans, then pulled on the shoulder holster. Rock saw me do that and grimaced, but I ignored him. I retrieved the Krait from the glove box, checked to see that the safety was still on, then slid it into the Bianchi holster. Despite the heat, I shrugged the windbreaker on and let it hide the pistol.

>   "You won't need that."

  "Then I won't use it."

  Walking in behind Pell, I saw the bar's interior had not substantially changed from its early days, and that included an exchange of atmosphere. The smoke in the air softened everything, but coiled neon lights doing a python around rough-hewn pillars and lots of glittering silver streamers did give the bar back a bit of an edge. Tiffany lamps advertising beers no one had heard of in a quarter century provided the light for three pool tables over in the far corner. I drifted toward them, remaining in the shadows as much as possible, while Rock crossed to the long bar and spoke to the bartender.

  Most of the clientele hovered somewhere between blue-collar workers and white trash looking to cadge drinks. The waitresses, all two of them, had once been pretty women, but working here had clearly hammered any life-joy out of them. The petite one wheeled and glared at a man who patted her rump, while the blonde Rubens woman made a great show of bending over and flashing her cleavage to encourage tips. The drink of choice looked to be a cut-rate Mexican beer, but shooters of whisky or tequila also made their way down lots of throats.

  The bartender gave Rock a big shrug about the same time I heard Gruff-voice groan over the click of balls and say, "Nobody coulda made that combination."

  A guy about an inch or two shorter than me smiled and answered him. "Wrongo, Billy, I just did."

  Something about hearing those voices again let the terror of my night in the body bag just pour through me. All of my muscles tightened at once, as if to prove to me that the toxin could not longer control me. I watched the two of them for a moment, assessing their every move and applying it to what I thought was their threat level. Aside from the pool cues in their hands, I saw nothing to indicate they would give me trouble, which meant I was free to make trouble for them.

  Deep down inside I hungered to make them as scared as I had been.

  As Jack bent over to line up another shot, I stepped up behind him and slapped the butt end of his cue-stick with the palm of my left hand. He miss-hit a table scratch and spun around angrily. He started to shout something, then he saw who I was. His face went ashen. "Jesus Christ."

  "You got that half right." I grabbed double handfuls of his jeans jacket and hoisted him up onto the table. I perched him on the corner of the table, with his butt right over the hole. "He returned from the dead, too, but he was more forgiving than I am."

  Gruff-voice started to come around the table, but I stared him back. "Finding out you're being sold for party favors can really piss a guy off, Jack. Lucky for you, I can take a joke." I smiled and Jack aped me while nervous sweat beaded up on his forehead.

  "What do you want?"

  I reached over and picked up the 8-ball. "I want you to think about what I would mean if I called '8-ball in the corner pocket.'" I pressed the cool ball against his lips. "You can keep the money you got off the Reapers because I don't want it, and they won't be asking for a refund." I let that sink in for a minute, then continued. "You kept all my stuff, my 'effects.' I want my things back."

  Jack didn't make much sense trying to speak around the 8-ball, so I pulled it away, yet held it up by his left eye so he'd remember I still had it. "I don't have your cards and stuff—I sold that stuff off quick."

  I frowned, masking my true feelings. While the identification and credit cards would have been an easy way to find out who I was, having them in the hands of others could be a blessing. With someone out to kill me, and this Jytte having shown how easy they were to use in tracing someone, having a whole host of folks using different cards all over the place was good.

  "And my cash?"

  "You didn't have much. Only $200, half in dolmarks and the rest in Lorica scrip."

  Dolmarks were the coin of the realm, more or less. Officially the currency in North America was still the dollar, but their worth generally fluctuated based on the exchange rate with the Deutschmark, so folks knew they played the float with any cash they held. Corporate scrip, on the other hand, was based on the corporation's net worth and tended to be more stable. Furthermore, corpscrip could be used at company stores, which meant it was the hardest currency most folks could get their hands on.

  Generally, though, only corp employees or black marketeers had that sort of scratch. Did I work for Lorica? "I'll take the cash. What else have you got?"

  "Nothin', nothin', honest."

  "Nothin' honest kinda sums up our relationship, doesn't it, Jack?" I looked over at Pell. "Rock, buy this lying remo a beer because he's going to want to wash this 8-ball down right quick."

  Pell was a quick enough study that he nodded and ordered one in a loud voice.

  "Don't hold out on me, Jack, because I'm in the mood to run the table, and then I'd have to rack you up. I don't think you'd like that." I looked up as Gruff-voice again moved toward me. "Trust me, Ace, he's not that good of a friend."

  "Jack, the wallet. You kept his wallet."

  Jack looked like a video preacher who'd gotten a suspended sentence. "Yeah, I have your wallet. It was new. I kept it." His hand dived inside his jacket, but I slapped it away. He looked at me with hurt in his eyes, then he swallowed hard as he figured out what I had assumed he was going for.

  I let the 8-ball bonk-bounce across the table as I opened his jacket. Sitting in an interior pocket I found a wallet that felt more familiar than it looked. I opened it and started dropping card after card of his from it to the floor. In the cash compartment I removed everything except the $200 he said I'd had and tossed it into the air. I poked around in a couple of other pockets of the thing, grunted, and slipped it into my back pocket.

  "Thanks for the game, Jack." I gave him the coldest smile I could imagine. "I hope we don't play again because next time it will be sudden death." Shaking his hand, I also pulled my watch off his wrist, though I doubt he noticed the loss for at least a week.

  I walked out of the Du without looking back, though I found myself preternaturally aware of everything happening behind me. It is difficult to explain, but I felt as if I could see the fear and awe and suspicion of everyone in the room. I know I got some of it from the stunned looks on certain patrons' faces, and other clues from whispered oaths, but there was something more there. I felt like a shark isolating the signals from a school of badly scared fish, and what's worse, I found myself viewing most of them like prey.

  Rock remained in the Du for a second or two longer than I did, no doubt basking in the respect he would get by being associated with me. I had, after all, spoken to him and had called him by name. Given the way he worked, the Du would provide him with both customers and information. For the foreseeable future, this was one habitat in which that chameleon would not have to change colors to blend in.

  I, on the other hand, had unconsciously downshifted into a personality that overpowered the habitat. Walking in, I had been more than content to have Pell handle the whole encounter. Had the bartender pointed Jackson out to him, Pell would have bought the man a beer, spun a tail about wanting paper on me, and would have dropped enough of Coyote's dolmarks to buy what I had extorted. I couldn't tell if I'd acted to embarrass Pell for his failure in getting the bartender to help, or if I just wanted to return to Jack a bunch of the fear I'd known when he sold me. I suspected it was more of the latter than the former, but seeing the shocked look on Pell's face had felt good.

  Rock left the Du but said nothing until we were sealed in the Elite's air-conditioned cocoon. "He'd have given you his wife and his mistress if you'd asked."

  "Probably." I pulled the wallet from my hip pocket and opened it again. I slipped my fingers in behind the piece of plastic securing the picture and card holder in the middle of the wallet. I felt a stiff piece of cardboard and pulled it out. The purple bit of cardboard had a number printed on it and a serrated edge that told me it had been torn from a larger piece of cardboard. I flipped it over. "Do you know where Ernesto's Upstreet is?"

  Pell cast a sidelong glance at the valet check I held. "You were at
Ernesto's?"

  "Is that a problem?"

  "No, just I didn't take you for a snorter. You musta been there for the games in the back." He gave me a half grin. "Of course, you could have been there for dinner, I suppose."

  "Do you suppose you know where it is?"

  "Yeah, 36th and Indian School, on the second level." He pursed his lips together. "I'll drive over to a Build-more access point. That should be good enough to get us in, though they might only let you go up."

  "Let's do it, then."

  "Okay. Find anything else useful?"

  I nodded. In the cash section of the wallet, stuck to the inner lip, was a small piece of flexible plastic that had been sewn into it by the manufacturer. It was designed for holding spare car keys or house keys, but held neither in this case. Ripping it up, I slid out a small, flat key with blocky grooves gnawed out of the lower edge. "Safety deposit box key. Probably for a hotel, but maybe a bank. It has a serial number."

  "That's interesting." He grinned. "Hidden treasure."