Dead Dwarves Don't Dance

by Derek J. Canyon

  “Burger,” Munk ordered, “beer, and fries.”

  “Yo, Mac,” the woman called through the small window into the kitchen. “Gimme a number one.”

  Munk glanced around the diner. It was a small place, only ten or so tables and the bar. A couple ate slowly by the window, and a dwarf sat at the far end of the bar, sipping kaf and reading the news display on the countertop next to his meal and hardhat. He wore a blue shirt, sturdy work pants, and heavy boots. Grey streaked his thick black beard, and his hands were deep brown and calloused.

  “What are you staring at?” the dwarf asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered. The waitress returned with a plate and glass and Munk looked down at the vatburger, fries, and beer.

  Vatbeef. He’d been eating it for years. Here he was, a millionaire, and he was still eating vatgrown garbage. He should be at a five-star restaurant, chugging champagne, chomping down on a real t-bone steak. Shaking his head in disgust, he lifted the burger.

  For twenty-four hours he’d been loitering in this or that parking lot with Grue and Earless, waiting for the heat to cool. He should have abandoned them and hired a pilot himself. He could have been safe in any other plex on the continent by now. Not stuck in Atlanta where every cop, merc, and bounty hunter was gunning for him.

  Munk finished his meal, drained the last of his beer, and plugged a cashcard into the transmittal port on the counter. The card beeped as a few creds transferred. Munk exited the diner, stopping on the sidewalk outside to buy a few more packs of Kokastiks from a vending machine.

  Lighting up again, he strode off down the street. A few minutes later he rounded the corner of a building to see the big Rolls parked alone in a lot outside a construction site.

  Even from a hundred meters away, Munk spotted Earless, naked on the roof of the Grand Safari, dancing and singing loudly. He grimaced and quickened his pace to a jog, skidding to a stop just beside the vehicle.

  The nude pleaser continued to sing: “There he is, just standing on the street, annoying little punk, bearded and with big feet. Engineered and spawned, in some toxic, mutant pond. They make good targets for any kind of heat!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Munk yelled angrily at the gyrating woman. Neon tattoos gleamed down her legs, and large bruises on her skinny torso revealed where her bullet-proof vest had saved her life in the junkyard.

  Earless paused in mid-kick and looked down at him. “Dancing to the music, babe!”

  “What music? There isn’t any music! Get down from there before someone calls the Reggies!”

  Earless dropped her leg down and struck a pose, hands on hips. “Why would they call the cops? Those guys like my show.” She pointed at the four or five bums in dirty rags who sprawled nearby amid a pile of cardboard crates, watching the pleaser intently.

  “Great,” Munk spat. He turned back to Earless. “You get down from there. Now! We’re leaving.”

  Earless sauntered to the rear of the Rolls and climbed down the ladder. The bums hooted and whistled, calling for more. Munk grabbed her by the arm as she reached the ground.

  “You get in the Rolls and lay off the happy juice!” Munk tore a turbo-patch off her shoulder.

  “But I like happy juice!” Earless grinned. “When I’m on it, even you look good.”

  “Where’d you get the drugs?”

  “Met a nice guy who just so happened to have a good supply of it. I liked his merchandise, so I bought a few thousand worth. He wanted to have a little fun, too. Said he’d give me a discount if I was real friendly to him.”

  He pushed her toward the side door. “Shut up, you stupid pleaser.”

  She leaned against the Safari, stretching her skinny frame and standing on her toes. She ran a hand down her chin, neck and breasts. Her fingernails left lines in her flaky and splotchy skin.

  “What’s the matter, Munk? Don’t you want to do me, too?”

  “That’s it!” Munk said angrily. He struck a heavy blow across her chin, knocking her against the vehicle. He caught her before she collapsed to the ground and carried her into the Rolls.

  Grue sprawled in the bed at the rear of the vehicle, drool dripping down his wrinkled chin. Crushed beer cartons lay scattered everywhere.

  Munk dropped Earless in one of the chairs and climbed into the driver’s seat. The strong, soothing sound of the Rolls engine thrummed through the cab, and Munk pulled the vehicle out of the parking lot.

  “Where we going?” Grue stumbled up beside him, his hot breath smelling richly of beer.

  “Just go back to sleep,” Munk growled. “I can’t even trust you to keep that pleaser under control. I’m going to find a better place to park, where she won’t attract so much attention.”

  32

  A quiet chirping awakened Noose. He sat up on the sofa and looked around. Cori relaxed in the recliner, rubbing the back of her neck. She had turned at the noise and was looking at the vidwall.

  Noose followed her gaze and saw the message on the screen: “News scan positive (Akbar)”.

  “What’s that?” Noose asked.

  “We got a match on the launcher.”

  “‘Bout time,” Noose complained, glancing at his watch. It was 8:27 pm.

  “Play news scan match,” Cori ordered.

  The screen brightened to reveal Valerie Flynn-Diaz, the newsbabe from channel 519, standing in front of a large, dirty, paint-scrawled wall. The words “Robert’s Salvage Yard” could barely be discerned underneath a thick layer of neon-graffiti.

  “…and yes, Brian,” Valerie said, “we have managed to get some information out of the police. They confirm that they’ve found several bodies here at Robert’s Salvage Yard, and they believe that they are connected with the horrible, body-ripping attack on Stiltzkin’s Dance Club two days ago.”

  A small window appeared in the lower left corner of the image, revealing Brian’s concerned face. “Why do they think it’s connected, Valerie?”

  “Apparently, three heavy military weapons were found with the bodies. An Akbar missile launcher, a Violator assault cannon, and a Thumper grenade launcher. As our regular viewers know, we reported last night that it was exactly those three weapons that were used in the Stiltzkin’s attack.”

  “Do the police have the perpetrators in custody?”

  “No, Brian, investigators have confided to me that they believe that the killers came here to dispose of the weapons. Apparently, once here, they were attacked by members of a neohuman turf gang. In the ensuing battle, six humans and a genny were slain. Police believe the humans were responsible for the Stiltzkin’s attack, and that the neohuman belonged to the turf gang.”

  “So, the police have found the vile scum that killed all those dwarves at Stiltzkin’s Dance Club?”

  “That’s right, Brian. The criminals are dead, killed by other criminals. The police think that the turf gang, composed of neohumans, hunted down and killed the terrorists in retaliation for their heinous actions against the dwarves.”

  “Wonderful news for the city, Valerie! Other terrorists should take close note. Even Atlanta’s criminal element will not stand for mass murder.”

  “I agree, Brian.”

  “Any idea when this battle occurred, Valerie?”

  “I’m told it was early yesterday morning. The owner of the yard only discovered the bodies a few hours ago.”

  “Lies,” Noose muttered.

  “What?” Cori asked, as she lowered the volume.

  “Fluff-talk from the babe, spouting the cop line.” Noose sat down on the sofa again. “No gang would leave behind heavy weapons. That kind of ordnance could zoom a gang into the stratosphere. This was no gang retaliation.”

  “Smith taking out the hitters, then?”

  “Smith would have taken the weapons with him. We tracked him down with just a missile tube. Imagine what the cops could do with all three weapons.”

  “But he killed Ipplitz to cover those tracks.”

  “It’s pretty sloppy.�
� Noose looked over at her. “Are you up to hacking into the police files and get some shots of the bodies?”

  Cori stretched her arms and nodded.

  33

  “Damn it!” Noose swore, looking at the rap sheet image on the screen. Although the dead face on the screen was covered with dried blood, oil, and mud, both he and Cori could still recognize him from Ipplitz’s files. It was Smith.

  Cori leaned back in the chair and groaned. “What now?”

  “Looks like Smith and the hitters killed each other for us.” Noose shook his head.

  “You think they’re all dead?”

  “I’m not sure. But Smith and five razors are dead. I know another of the corpses. Name’s Roe. A racist bastard who wouldn’t sniff at killing neohumans.”

  Cori scratched at the bridge of her nose. “So, you think Smith killed the hitters and they killed him? Pretty neat.”

  “Too neat. Smith had to have had backup if he planned on smearing Roe and the others. Could be his backup decided to cross him and killed them all. Especially if Smith had the payoff money with him.”

  “It can’t be that easy,” Cori pushed her hair back behind one ear. “You really think Smith was the one behind all this?”

  “Not likely. According to the police, he was killed yesterday morning. So who iced Ipplitz, and tried to get me today?”

  “Smith was working for someone.”

  “But who? With Smith and the hitters dead, we don’t have anywhere to look.”

  “We can’t give up here. I can start searching for Smith’s real identity.”

  “That’s about our only lead, and it’s a slim one.”

  Cori looked back at the screen and read the notes that accompanied the picture of Smith’s face. “Maybe not. It says here that the police only ran a check through their Regional rap sheets. Looks like they’ve got a request in for access to Global databanks. Authorization hasn’t come through yet.”

  “You don’t need authorization.”

  “Hell, no,” Cori said with a smile.

  “What if you can’t find a match in the Global database?”

  “Then I’ll start running face-print checks. Smith may have altered his appearance. It’ll take some time, but this isn’t going to end here, Noose.”

  Noose’s phone chirped and he retrieved it from the coffee table.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Noose?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is the Professor.”

  Noose smiled. Reasby didn’t like using his real name, but he used a rather obvious alias.

  “Prof. You’ve got something for me?”

  “Yes,” the Professor said, his voice calm and assured. “That blood sample you gave me came from a neohuman. Female pleaser. Well on her way to gene-failure.”

  Noose’s eyes widened. “Replay that last bit for me, Prof.”

  “I said it was a female pleaser,” Reasby repeated. “Name of…get this… Honey Humpjoy. Those geneticists seem to have fun naming the pleasers, don’t they?”

  Holding the phone to his ear, Noose looked again at the seven images on the screen. Smith, Roe, four other razors, and a drudge. All male.

  “You still there, Noose?” Reasby asked after a short pause.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Anything else?”

  “Surely. No half-measures here. I have an old file on her from Chattacoochee Escort Services, that’s the corp that purchased her natal contract. She was your basic pleaser, but disappeared after mind-blowing a customer. Turns out she’s a rogue psyker.”

  Noose whistled. “I owe you for this one, Prof.”

  “I am grateful to hear that. I just sent the data. Did you get it?”

  “Yeah, thanks again, Prof.”

  “I’m not known for my altruism. I expect to be well compensated.”

  “No problem there, Prof. I’ll be down at Emory tomorrow to pick up the blood sample and bring you what you need.”

  “I shall be expecting you.”

  Noose punched some keys on the phone, sending the Professor’s data to Cori’s vidwall.

  “That was my contact. He tagged the blood as belonging to a female pleaser. He sent her bio.”

  “A woman? There weren’t any women found at the salvage yard.”

  “Exactly.”

  Cori accessed the Professor’s file and brought it up on the screen. An attractive blonde appeared, quite thin, with long attractive elvish ears and frail features.

  “Earless!” he gasped.

  Cori’s head jerked around to look at him. “You know her?”

  Noose nodded. “It’s an old photo, but, yeah. Here name’s Earless. A burned-out psyker who used to run with some cutting edge players. Most of her pals split or died, but she still does a few things here and there with a couple of close friends…”

  “And…?”

  “She hangs with a dull razor named Munk and a goon named Grue. Used to be some of the best.”

  “Three hitters, three weapons.”

  “Munk’s a vet, so he’d be checked out with the ordnance. And they’re all probably more than desperate enough to pull the job.”

  Cori displayed the list of junkyard bodies on the screen. “And none of them are accounted for.”

  “Which means they’re out there, somewhere.”

  “How are we going to find them?”

  “Munk likes to sprawl at a bar in Cobb that caters to racist types.”

  “Wait. Munk is a racist but runs with a goon and a pleaser? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Word is Grue and Earless saved his life. Guess he’s got a soft spot for them.” Noose grabbed his coat.

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “Why not? I’m not letting these guys get away.”

  “Noose, you’re going to wear yourself out,” she said, concerned. “You haven’t given your wound any time to heal.”

  “I’m fine. I have to go while the bars are open. I also need your car.”

  “All right, but I’m coming with you.”

  “Wrong. You’re going to stay here and make sure that Earless, Grue, or Munk haven’t shown up in a morgue somewhere. Just because they weren’t found with Smith, doesn’t mean the guy behind this all hasn’t managed to have them killed.”

  Cori frowned, but realized that Noose was right. “I’m getting sick and tired of being cooped up in this apartment.”

  “I know, but we’re on track now.” Noose started for the door. “Earless is hooked on turbo or boost, so you might also check the rehabs, patch dens, and pushers.”

  “Will do,” Cori nodded, then waved goodbye as he headed for the elevators.

  34

  Noose parked Cori’s aquamarine Global Automotive Celerity groundcar down the street from the Barker Bar. Munk’s favorite watering hole catered to racists, people he could identify with. The Paleo-Human Lobbyist Organization had meetings there every Tuesday afternoon. That didn’t mean much to Noose. Hate clubs had existed throughout history, and PHLO was just a bunch of anti-genny humans that congregated to complain about all the problems neohumans caused for them.

  Noose shook his head. Walking into an anti-genny bar late at night was not the smartest thing for a dwarf to do, but he really didn’t have any choice. He’d already called several contacts to track down Earless and Grue. Word on the street was that the pleaser and the goon had dropped out of sight a few days earlier. No one had seen them since the morning of the hit on Stiltzkin’s.

  The dwarf pulled out his two firearms and tapped their holographic ammo readouts. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use the Colts; it all depended on how the drinkers in the bar responded to his arrival.

  As he neared the entrance, the doors burst open and several men tumbled out, laughing, belching, and joking, beer cartons in hand. The men stumbled right past Noose, but were far too drunk to notice him.

  Noose continued to the door and stood outside for a moment, listening to the music and voices that leaked into
the night. He took a deep puff off the stub of his cigar and tossed it to the ground. He pushed the door open and walked into the bar.

  Humans packed the inside of the tavern, not a single neohuman identification gloprint visible on any of them. Customers crowded against the bar, which ran along the right wall from the door to the back. Booths lined the left wall; chairs and tables filled the area between. Noose could hear the clatter of balls from several people playing pool at the rear of the room. Smoke drifted throughout, and the conversations, noises, laughter and shouts mixed with jukebox music to create an incomprehensible drone. There was the unmistakable smell of too many drinkers in too small a space: sweat, beer, and smoke.

  An increasing number of customers stared at him, stopping conversations in mid-sentence and watching him over their beers. By the time he’d taken a half-dozen steps inside, all eyes were following his movements. Only the dwindling vocals of a Darth Bowie song on the antique jukebox drifted through the room.

  Noose walked up to the bartender. “I’m looking for Munk.”

  The bartender, a bald man in his mid-fifties with a faded, decades-old neon-tattoo of a wolf on the left side of his skull, turned his back on the dwarf.

  “Well, I’ve got a one-k gleamer here for anyone who can tell me where Munk is.” Noose held up a cashcard, turning slowly and watching the faces of those around him. Most revealed annoyance, but many wore masks of hate.

  “What? Nobody could use a little extra beer money? How about some creds to keep that old breeder whore in line?” A rumble went through the crowd.

  Noose walked to the nearest table and dropped the cashcard on the scratched surface in front of a twenty-something man in jeans and blue shirt.

  “What about you, pal? Bet you sure could use a thousand creds, eh? Maybe buy yourself another hood?”

  The man glared up viciously, but said nothing.

  “You got your nose in the wrong hole, gimli.” A large, black-bearded man pushed his way through the crowd, accompanied by two others of equal size. Noose smiled.

  “This is a hole,” Noose said. “You got that right, but it’s the right one.”