“Dolly!” The concentrated energies blast me up, away, over the building across the street and down through the roof of the three-story walk-up the next block over. The roof and attic barely cushion my fall; I plummet through somebody’s unoccupied third floor bedroom, smash my head through a wooden storage bench, and crash to a stop in the second floor office of Dresden & Constantine, Private Investigators.
My life bar is down by 27%, my eyebrows are gone, my fancy zoot-suit looks like it’s been dragged through a Moose Lake wood chipper, and my mouth tastes like Eveready. For just a moment I reflect how comfortable it is lying here in the pointy and uncomfortable wreckage of a solid oak roll top desk while I consider my options.
Hell, I even take a moment to admire the series of perfect, Quantum-shaped holes that trace my descent. Once the stars spinning around my head disappear, I discover that I’ve retained my grip on the still Big-ass, Baconator-sized Bustermarm as I perform an inadvertent ceilingectomy. The contents of the upstairs bedroom rain down on me and knock my life bar down some more. I return my sword to my list – the damn bulky thing – generate some new duds and climb my way out of the mess. Down the stairs and out the front door I casually exfiltrate, just as two squinty-eyed, cigarette-smoking, trenchcoat and fedora clad hardcases push past me on their way in. A sawbuck says that these birds have got to be Dresden and Constantine, and I vacate the neighborhood most expeditiously.
A quick ambulatory excursion back to the Hotel Dollyfornia – such a lovely place – and I equip item 566, my Almost Universal Solvent Hose Gun.
“Here goes nothing.” I aim the nozzle at Dolly’s fortress. I leap into the air, activate the AA, and hose the building with the most corrosive substance known to Proxima pseudo-science. Lotta good that does. For all the effect it has, I should have just used my carton of Happi-Majik Sugar-Free Low Sodium Reduced Fat Coconut Milk, item 330.
I land, walk up to where the front door should be and beat on the wall with the gold and ivory sprayer wand. A witchblade whips out and in. Faster than a speeding bullet, my vision pane flashes red, and the rain-dappled lights of the gritty city whirl and tumble.
I land with a thud, and out of the corner of my eye I see blood fountaining from the neck stump of my still-standing corpse.
Fade to black.
Chapter Fifteen
Damn the feedback.
As soon as I respawn, I equip item 580, my Roman Galea with a white plume that I lifted off one of Empress Thun’s goons. No trenchcoat this time around; instead I go with item 301 – John Blutarsky’s toga. On my back goes my Slice Bang, item 565. The last thing I equip is Link’s hookshot, item 66.
“It’s time to recruit some help.”
Lightning cracks in the sky above me; the muggs keeping warm by the trashcan cackle. My eyes are drawn to a spark in the woods. If I’m judging correctly, it should be right near the gazebo where Frances and I had our first knock-down drag-out meet and greet, and where she murdered me for the first or second time – or did I murder her? Digital amnesia rears its ugly head – that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The light near the gazebo is suddenly gone. I’m either losing my mind or my mind is losing me.
An aeros taxi passes overhead.
My hookshot connects to the undercarriage and I’m flying like Mary Martin on a wire, about ten feet below the taxi. Sure there are other ways to travel, but this way is fun, puts the zip in zipline and will literally let me get the drop on the goodfellas I plan to visit next.
The hack jockey rolls down his window, sticks his plug ugly mug into the slipstream and starts slangin’ me about no free rides.
“Chinatown!” I shout up to him. “I’ll pay!”
He keeps on flapping his yap and shaking his fist, so I put a lead love letter through his side mirror. “I said I’ll pay! Chinatown! NOW!” That seems to do the trick. I make the hookshot reel me right up to the undercarriage, just in case Travis Bickle tries to scrape me off.
The noive of some people.
He jumps to a higher skylane and gooses it; I hold on tight. The rain picks up and smacks into me like wet, angry buckshot. An NPC crumbsnatcher in the backseat of a passing aeros takes a break from kicking the back of Mom’s seat to make googly-eyed gargoyle faces at me, thumbs in his ears. Mom gives me a startled glance and sideslips away, just as I’m about to give Junior a little ballistic etiquette lesson, Slice Bang style.
What a spoilsport!
All of a sudden I’m doing the Fred Flintstone Feets of Fury on the roof of an aerosSUV; Mr. Cabbie has come in low, and tries to scrape me off like puppy poo from a flip-flop. Not satisfied with that, he stoops on a plumber’s aerosVan that sports a roof rack that looks like it’d be just the thing for snagging unwanted hitch-hikers.
Bastard! I fire my Slice Bang into the passenger side floorboard. The palooka keeps his jalopy relatively steady for the next digital mile.
We proceed more or less uneventfully almost all the way to Chinatown before he swerves like a drunken fruit bat to give it one last go. He gives it the giddyup all of a sudden and swerves to hook me on the aerials of a Department of Housinge Cat Detector Van.
“Knock that shit OFF, Iggy!” I shout to him, and I give him a little bang-bang reminder to straighten up and fly right.
He swings in ‘scrape my ass on the pavement’ low, and hovers just outside the big red archway with golden dragon pillars, guardian foo dog statues and pagoda roof. Banners bedecked with Chinese characters alternate with strings of red paper lanterns that stretch from building to building and crisscross above the streets.
We’re here – the stir-fried, sleaz-ified, dragon-ride that is China Town a la Noir.
“Here’s good!” I holler as I release my line. He cuts his lift, grounds his hack in a cloud of dust and debris, throws his door open and gets the drop on me with a pair of four-inch Colt Python revolvers with ivory grips. Score one for the cabbie – I pay him double for the ride and triple for the bullet holes and quadruple not to kneecap me, and he lifts off in a whine of turbines and a cloud of burned JP-8.
The street scene is a free-for-all of Asian stereotypes –monks in saffron robes share sidewalk space with Gangnam wannabes; swaying courtesans with lotus feet compete with kimonoed geishas for the unaccompanied fun seeker’s trade; pedicabs and rickshaws race to offer their services to anyone who crosses their paths; and street vendors in conical hats hawk MADE IN CHINA trinkets and point the discerning gentlemen to nuru massage parlors tucked into the alleys. A few of the restaurant names immediately catch my eye: Kim Jong-Poon’s Kimchi Glory Hole, Trump’s Great Wall Buffet, Bukkake Jack’s Bulgogi Shack, Blasian Street Meat, Duterte’s Leaky Torta Grande.
From there, my peepers move to a moving neon image of a pair of chopsticks tossing ramen in a bowl, which for some reason, gets me to thinking about my meatsack self in the RW.
No doubt the Big F.E. has discovered all one hundred and sixty-eight inanimate pounds of her dumbass boyfriend-boss stuck on her couch like an abscess in the anus of progress. Talk about embarrassment. She ain’t stupid, and it probably didn’t take her long to get my current location verified by Rocket or Sophia.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time’ – famous last words. Yeah, I’m an idiot, a real boob.
International Rescue still hasn’t shown up yet, so either Dolly has disabled log in access, or my peeps and homies ain’t doing no jive diving lest they get their asses trapped in The Loop too. What a hoot that would be – slashing my way through the dark underbelly of Dollyville like I was the Wehrmacht on day one of Barbarossa alongside one of my Dream Team divemates – as long as it wasn’t Sophia. The War Faun would probably be the perfect gun-buddy for this place.
One of the trinket booth owners, an Asian Jane with a face like a Galapagos tortoise, looks up from her newspaper, takes in my stylish Roman-themed attire and berates me. “Hey, Carigura! You no buy, you move on, not brock way for paying customer!”
“Keep your hair on, sister.” I pi
ck up a slick golden plastic Buddha statue, about the same size as a dashboard Jesus.
I’m not really sure how long I’ve been in The Loop this time around. Three deaths – maybe three days subjective, but who knows how long objectively, especially if Dolly is dilating the die/respawn interval. I’d better just call it three days and add three items to my list just to keep track. So, item 587, the golden Buddha, item 588, a Chinese finger trap and item 589, a rice spoon with an image of the Forbidden City.
“Hey, Joe – arr dat cost credit!”
I point my Slice Bang at her.
“How’s this for credit?”
The old crow twists the gun out of my hand, puts her elbow in my throat, fist in my breadbasket, and knee in my muscle o’ love as she sweeps my feet out from under me with a plastic-sandaled foot and points my own gun at me.
Holy egg foo yong, Batman!
Wotta revoltin’ development!
I raise my hands and flash my most sincere fish-eating grin. “Easy now with that bean shooter, Honorable Grandmother, I’ll pay, I’ll pay!”
Credit is transferred and she lets me up.
“Next time you no touch, you pay first!” she hisses as she settles back on her stool. “You pay! And I keep gun!”
More credit to get my own gun back.
“Yes, ma’am.” I brush my toga off, adjust my galea, swallow my pride and get the hell outta dodge. True, I could equip a number of items that would easily settle the score between us, but time is of the essence – actually, no it isn’t – and I feel like doing what I came here to do.
It’s time to pay my old pal Scarface Charlie a visit.
~*~
Hu Jintao’s Pu-Pu Dumpling Express. The Department of Health and Sanitation would burn this place to the ground and then sow the ashes with salt if an inspector ever had the misfortune to set foot inside this filthy, dirty, icky, sticky, poorly-lit, badly ventilated, feculent cornhole of an excuse for a greasy spoon. Aiden swears up and down by this place and raves about the food; maybe he’s never actually been here and it’s all been delivery. Beats the hell out of me.
Keeping to the shadows, I eyeball the front of the joint where two hardbodies of the Orient casually loiter by the entrance. There are no weapons apparent, but these dames are the same ones that went one-for-two with me and Aiden during the Dirty Dave Rescue caper.
I raise my finger and equip my Deathly Hallows invisible cloak, item 90. The damn thing really comes in handy in my line of work, and sure, I have something a little more appropriate for what’s about to go down, but the cloak is fun. It goes over my shoulders easy, but there’s not enough of it to cover all of me and my honkin’ great Roman Centurion’s helmet at the same time. A damn shame, really, it would have been quite the entrance go in all invisible-like, and surprise them all with the big reveal.
Okay, plan B. My helmet goes back into my list and I equip my Yeezus™ Crown of Golden Thorns, item 309, one of the more offensive items in my list alongside my autographed cartoon portrait of Muhammad, item 223. The Crown of Thorns will most definitely fit under the cloak, and I’ll no doubt pick up a few scrapes and scratches from the fully authentic and über-pointy thorns, but one must sometimes suffer for one’s art – and if GG Allin can pull it off, I’m pretty sure I can too.
I tiptoe over to the Eastern-themed Powerpuff Girls. One stands guard in front of the large glass window, scanning the streets for any activity. Manning the entrance proper is the second killer dame, her long black hair blowing in the wind. My eyes gravitate back to the glass. Behind it hangs a flock of dead ducks that have been decapitated and plucked, which is likely how I’ll end up if I don’t do this just right.
While I wait for a distraction to present itself, I stare deeply at one of the hanging duck carcasses again, wanting to feel hungry but getting nowhere with it. Somewhere, in the real world, I’m being fed through a tube up my ass, and I hope that someone has instructed them to include some animal protein in my feedings. They don’t have to run a ribeye through an Omega Mega Mouth Holistic Liquid Maker, but something other than plant-based nutrients would be nice.
And the distraction I need presents itself.
Three aerosSUVs lower to the curb and six zoot-suited gorillas with no necks, bad haircuts, and colorful stompers jump out from the lead and trail vehicles and form a loose cordon. I don’t know what’s come over Tony’s crew, or why they decided to rob a Payless of their worst shoes, but they apparently saved the gaudiest for last.
The driver of the middlest vehicle jumps out and opens the rear passenger door. The final goomba out is none other than Tony Clifton’s himself. The fat Italian bastard is in a three-piece, pin-striped suit and two-tone teal leather wingtip oxfords with white soles. On his dome is a matching teal fedora, and just to be sure to give off that douche bag allure he’s going for, his collar is popped.
Little fashion tip, Tony – nobody looks good with a popped collar.
His security team folds in around him, and the capo di tutti capi struts into the joint right past Charlie’s Angels. This gives me the opening I need; I get in step with the last goomba in line and stay on him like stink on a monkey. We pass the killer Katsunis in the time it takes Jimmy John’s Subway to whip-up a premade sammy. I ease up once we’re inside and let the mobsters get ahead of me by a few steps. They’re ushered into the main dining area, which is secluded by a series of bamboo room dividers painted in stylized oriental scenes. I figure a spot near the entrance will do for now, so I keep my position behind awkwardly-placed fish tank filled with overfed Nemos and Dorys
Scarface Charlie plays the welcoming host; he and Fat Tony sit at a table in the center, and the bodyguards squeeze into booths. The two mobsters speak in low tones that I can’t quite hear; Tony’s guys keep mad-dogging Charlie’s one behemoth Yakuza minder, who pays them little mind.
I think about equipping my snail shell Johann Nepomuk Maelzel ear trumpet, item 318, but scooting a bit closer should also do the trick. I make the hasty decision to get to the other side of the fish tank, and as I do, I snag my foot on the end of my frickin’ cloak and start to fall. I reach out to catch my balance on the fish tank, and end up pulling the fish tank down on top of me.
~*~
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I tell those gathered.
Who am I kidding? This is exactly what it looks like. Luckily, I hopped to my feet lickety split and I now have my tommy gun, item 247, pointed right at Scarface Charlie. I take a few steps closer to the center table and avoid the treasure box aquarium decoration covered in algae. Sure, I’m wet, and I think one of the Nemos is loose in my toga, but I’ve managed to get the drop on gathered gangsters, which is exactly what I wanted.
Fat Tony’s cugines have pig-piled him, and have all got a bean shooter out, pointed directly at yours truly, of course. Charlie’s one big ol’ Yakuza button man has a Type 56 assault rifle pointed at me, ready to squirt me full of flying metal.
Calm and collected, Scarface Charlie sips from a bottle of Brilliant Chang and maintains an arctic smile on his pock-marked mug. He’s in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit with fur collar, accented by a red handkerchief with yellow stars that matches his tie. Rumor has it that his father came home unexpectedly early one night and found Charlie doing unspeakable things to his younger brother. The old man personally disfigured Charlie’s face as punishment and permanent reminder.
“Quantum Hughes.” Scarface Charlie finally taps his polished Borgioli against the floor for a moment. “It’s been a while.”
My Spidey senses tingle as Charlie’s two Asa Akiras appear in my peripheral vision.
“You’re completely surrounded,” says Tony, as his bodyguards unpile from him and help him to his feet, “and what’s with the frickin’ crown of thorns?”
“I thought it would be a nice touch. Ooops – hang on a moment.” With my free hand, I pull the toga away from my dangly bits and shake my leg until the yellow and blue clownfish hits the floor and flops
around.
“Get a loada dis guy, fellas, he thinks he’s Jesus!”
“Not bad, if I do say so myself. I just need another fish and a couple loaves of bread to really complete the illusion.”
Tony grunts. “You’re a goddamn psychopath, and you look like a frickin’ moron in that toga.”
“It’s what’s under the toga that counts,” I remind Tony.
“What, you got somethin’ under there or somethin’?”
“Just my flaming thunderbolt of wisdom. Enough small talk, gents,” I smile over my shoulder at the battle-ready redhots, “ladies, I hate to interrupt your little meeting, but I figured this would be the best place to start.”
Tony guffaws. “Start what? You barge in here like pretend Jesus with a Tommy gun and a fish so you can do the Sermon on the Mount for us, or what? We were just about to have some muffle Trumplings!”
Two of his henchman grumble along with him about the Trumplings.
“Tony, I hate to be the one to tell ya, but the truffles here aren’t real truffles – they’re ordinary mushrooms the delivery boys wear in their socks while they make their runs. And the mutton, or the muffle, as Charlie has branded it? Let me put it like this – have you ever actually seen a rat in Chinatown? I mean, besides yourself.”
He shakes his head.
“Well, there’s a reason for that.”
Tony eyes Charlie. “What’s this about the mutton? You tellin’ me this shit is rat meat? I eat here three times a week! And what about these not being real truffles?”
“Why are you bothering me about truffles?” Charlie snaps. “He’s lying to you, trying to distract you and turn us against one another!”
Tony turns back to me and growls. “Why the hell did you come bargin’ in here, anyways?”
“Simple – Dolly’s back and … um, won’t talk to me; I’m here with a business proposition.”
Cyber Noir Redux: (Book Six) (The Feedback Loop 6) Page 16