Vickers (Corp.s.e.)

by Mick Farren

  There were two doors in the room. Hey Nurse opened one of them; a small hotel-style bathroom was behind it.

  "I'll fix the water for you."

  "Do I have to leave the door open?"

  "Don't do me any favors."

  He closed the door behind him, dropped his blanket and stepped into the warm spray. Gradually the water worked on his locked muscles until he no longer felt like he was mummified. His brain also started working again. If he'd been out for twenty-seven hours, he could be just about anywhere in the world. He could assume nothing and he'd be well advised to get past Hey Nurse and on to someone who was a little more informative. So far, it had been a bit too close to brainwashing. Part of his wish had already come true when he came out of the shower. A tall, broad-shouldered man in military fatigues was flirting with Hey Nurse. He turned and extended a hand.

  "Mort Vickers, my name's Streicher. I'll be in charge of you while you're here."

  Vickers felt a little awkward accepting introductions wrapped in only a towel.

  "I'm glad to meet you. Do you mind if I get dressed?"

  Hey Nurse made her excuses. "I'll leave you two alone."

  After she'd gone, Streicher grinned at Vickers.

  "Isn't she a peach? Don't you just love nurses? It's all that starched cotton and those white stockings…"

  Vickers was pulling on his pants.

  "Where, exactly, is here?"

  Streicher looked a little disappointed that Vickers didn't want to share his appreciation of nurses.

  "Just like you were told, a desert location about sixty clicks outside Vegas."

  "I've been out so long I could be anywhere."

  "That's true, but you ain't."

  Vicker unzipped one of his bags, looking for a clean shirt. He was surprised to see that both his weapons were right there on top. The ammunition he'd bought had, however, vanished. Streicher didn't have to be asked.

  "You'll get ammunition when you need it."

  "Are you going to tell me what I'm here for?"

  "You look like you could use some breakfast."

  Vickers had met a lot of men like Streicher. They were the perpetual NCOs. They hung securely in the middle levels of authoritarian violence. Having raised themselves from the drudgery of the common soldier, they somehow lacked the wit, the intelligence, the courage or the contacts to scale the lonely peaks of real command. Instead, they carved out miniature empires based on a capacity for unquestioning loyalty and a talent for keeping things extremely simple and, on occasion, also extremely brutal. Sometimes they were sadists, sometimes they were closet homosexuals. Almost all had problems with relationships that weren't based on regulations and orders. This was the basic Military model. Other variations were Gangster and Law Enforcement. The differences were mainly ones of style. Streicher seemed to have learned his mannerisms from watching old John Wayne movies. He also seemed to have something of a body fetish. In what Vickers estimated to be his leathery late forties, Streicher was in perfect condition except for a slight beer belly. He was tanned and his visible muscles, on his forearms and neck, stood out like ropes. His eyes were blue and calculating, his hair was cropped to little more than a suede scalp and his jaw was polished by a lifetime of close shaves. Vickers knew there was just one way of dealing with people like Streicher. If you made it very clear, very quickly, that you were the boss you could have them kissing your ass. If you didn't, they would undoubtedly force you to kiss theirs. The first rule was not to give an inch.

  "Breakfast sounds good; is it that time of day?"

  "It's around dawn."

  "So, an early breakfast."

  "You can bring your stuff. You won't be living down here." Vickers picked up one of his bags and nodded down at the other.

  "You want to give me a hand with some of it?"

  Streicher's gruff-but-genial mask slipped for an instant but he quickly gathered it up along with the bag and ushered Vickers out of the door. The small empty room and four others like it were part of an ultra-utilitarian basement that in no way prepared him for what he would confront when he reached the top of the flight of cast iron steps that seemed to be the only exit. Streicher laughed at his obvious surprise.

  "Step back and take a good look. You don't see many places like this."

  It was what had come to be known as western sci-fi, the Martian ranch, a flamboyant creation of curved glass, angled steel beams and flat, kidney-shaped slabs of floating concrete. Somewhere, back around the middle of the twentieth century, an architect who must normally have worked on ice cream parlors had had a vision of the future.

  "Like something the Jetsons would live in. It was built by some Hollywood sex goddess in the early sixties. It was supposed to be her desert retreat but she took an overdose before she could even move in. Her estate sold it to a rock star and then a dozen or so years later he had to give it to his cocaine dealer when his band hit the skids. The dealer went crazy and let this cult move in. From there it went through a procession of weirdos and hoods on the lam until, somehow, the titles became the property of the corporation. When the project came up, one bright boy in real estate suggests we make use of it. We've got a heart-shaped pool out back. If we stay here long enough we'll get it filled."

  "You seem very proud of the place."

  "I am. I've been here four months."

  "Working on the project?"

  "Right."

  "The project that no one will tell me about?"

  Streicher grinned. "That's the one."

  They'd come into a big ranch-style living room with a sunken conversation pit and a futuristic chimney in black and baby-pink marble. Blue morning light was leaking through the not quite drawn drapes on an enormous picture window. A couple of hunched figures lay asleep among the cushions in the pit. One seemed to be clutching a whiskey bottle. The air in the room was heavy with booze and cigar smoke.

  "Keep things fairly loose 'round here?"

  "They'll tighten up before too long." Streicher jerked back the drapes, slid open a section of window and took a deep, satisfied breath. There were curses and mumblings from the pit. He ignored them and stepped out onto a wide patio. On the other side of the patio were a cluster of guest cottages that had all the ambiance of a motel. Streicher indicated that Vickers would be quartered in one of them and they started walking toward it. Vickers looked back at the house. It really was El Rancho Mars. There was even a strange steel pylon rising from the middle of it. In the first flush of the relentless desert dawn, it looked like the forgotten set for some B feature, ray gun movie. It was set on a piece of high ground and sheltered by a few scrubby trees and coarse bushes. Beyond them, Vickers couldn't remember when he'd seen so much nothing. A scarcely defined dirt road ran from horizon to house. To the east, a line of low hills was still casting deep purple shadows.

  Streicher pushed open the door to the guest cottage. It was dark inside, just two beds and lots of chaotic debris. There appeared to be two figures in one of the beds. Streicher threw Vickers' case on the spare bed and indicated that Vickers should do the same. One of the figures protested with a man's voice.

  "What the fuck is going on?"

  "You're getting a new roommate."

  "I already got one."

  "An official roommate."

  "Is that the guy you kept unconscious all yesterday?"

  "You shut your mouth, Fenton." He glanced at Vickers. "You can leave your stuff here and sort it out later. Let's go and eat."

  They walked on around the house, past the empty heart-shaped pool. Its bottom was covered with leaves.

  "When the sun gets hotter, you have to watch out for rattlesnakes. They bask."

  Beyond the pool was a circle of fake Greek pillars. One had been smashed. Streicher noticed him looking at them.

  "The cult put them up."

  They went through an arch and into an open doorway. They were inside a long, low, tiled kitchen. A small, balding man in a chef's apron was loading an indust
rial-size coffee machine.

  "This is Vickers, Albert."

  "How d'you do, Vickers."

  "Albert cooks for us." To Albert: "Vickers has been asleep for a day and a half. He's hungry."

  "I heard about them bringing him in. There ain't nothing ready yet, though. You'll both have to wait."

  "You can cook him up some eggs."

  "Damned if I can. It's going to throw out my whole schedule. I've got twenty others to feed."

  Vickers stored the tidbit of data. Streicher gave Albert a hard look.

  "Just make some coffee and cook us up some eggs, Albert; don't fuck with me at this time of the morning." He turned to Vickers. "You want a drink or is it too early for you?"

  Vickers took a seat at a long, scrubbed kitchen table.

  "Sure, I'd like a drink."

  Streicher had a bottle of Wild Turkey and two glasses.

  "The others will be down in a while."

  One by one they came down for breakfast. Streicher made the introductions. In each case Vickers was eyed with extreme suspicion. The first to arrive was Bronce. He was another body freak who'd already run seven miles that morning, a short brown bullet of a man with slit eyes and flat, East European cheekbones. He ignored Albert's handiwork and fixed himself a creation of carrots, celery and yogurt. As they shook hands, Vickers noticed a number of old but once serious scars on his chest and a look in his eye that suggested he wasn't quite sane. Vickers figured him for a cop who'd been busted for brutality and then found that he could live a whole lot better on the freelance violence market.

  Vickers had met Parkwood before. The thin, fastidious corpse was withdrawn to the point of anonymity. They'd worked together on the Louisville business when Parkwood had been attached to DTL. Vickers wouldn't in a million years claim to know him, but he knew that he could be trusted. Vickers had also worked with Anna Treig. She'd been strikebreaking at the same time as he'd been there to take off the senior exec who'd started all the trouble in the first place. He'd seen her both at work and at play. She was a squat peasant woman who liked gin, stupid young boys and inflicting injury. Vickers suspected that he was probably frightened of her. Streicher seemed to notice something as he introduced them.

  Sammy and Ralph were a two-man show, the classic combination of fast slender wit and linebacker power. Of course, Vickers had heard of them. Who hadn't? Two ghetto kids who'd taken a direct gutter meaness and sold it all the way to corporate hiring. The big debate was over whether they were also lovers. They appeared to deliberately distance themselves as far as possible from the rest.

  The kitchen began to fill, both with people and the smell of bacon, waffles and coffee. Albert was now dishing out food and there started to be too many people for Vickers to absorb all the names and all the faces. The introductions became more perfunctory as people made increasing demands on Streicher's time and attenion. All Vickers could do was make a note of the ones who stood out from the crowd. Morse was a Dapper Dan dresser with a gold tooth who probably fancied himself as being in the tradition of the gunfighters of the Old West. Vickers couldn't imagine how he could have qualified for El Rancho Mars unless he was an amateur psycho with a private income. Eggy was subhuman, tatoos, chains, a shaved head and a look of desperate vacancy. Pointed at a target, he'd go off like a human buzz saw. There was no percentage in exchanging niceties with Eggy.

  "Oh yeah, Vickers, meet our own chorus line. Zoe, Bobbie, Linda and Debbie."

  The quartet was too hung over for Vickers to register with them but at least they didn't look at him as if he might be poisonous. What he couldn't fathom was what their role in the project might be, unless it was simple light relief. Even in their robes and in bad shape, they were so obviously Vegas that they looked undressed without feathers and spangles. Not just Vegas but creme de Vegas, they had to be either showgirls or hookers; Vickers didn't care which, he knew that within hours anything would be a relief from the gang of muscle and homicide that was otherwise assembled in the kitchen. Vickers started to make some calculations. Albert had said that he had to feed twenty other people. He assumed that the house held twenty-two including Streicher, twenty-three if Albert hadn't counted himself. There weren't twenty-two or twenty-three people in the kitchen. Maybe sixteen, seventeen tops. A half-dozen or so were still asleep or otherwise occupied. Those who were there could be divided into a number of distinct groups. Albert had developed an assistant who acted as busboy and dishwasher. Together they made up the domestic staff. Four men in various versions of military fatigues looked like simple ex-soldiers, maybe ex-marines. From the way they related to Streicher, he figured that they had to be his immediate staff. Subtracting the four showgirls and the nurses, it left a solid eight, nine or maybe more, all of whom were hired guns. Some were showboats like Morse or Sammy and Ralph. Others were cold calculators like Parkwood or meatgrinders like Eggy and Anna Treig. By far, the majority of them could command top dollar. Herbie Mossman had assembled himself about as ugly and dangerous a bunch as even a rich man could acquire.

  A latecomer pushed his way through the crowded kitchen. He argued with Albert about whether breakfast was still being served, and then made straight for Vickers. There were people sitting on either side of him but it didn't seem to deter this young man. He tapped Bronce, who was on Vickers' right, on his shoulder.

  "You want to move down one?"

  "I'm through, I was just leaving anyway."

  "Great."

  He turned his attention to Vickers. He had something of a unique ability to shovel food into his mouth as fast as he could while talking at the same time.

  "You're Vickers, right?"

  "Right."

  "You worked for Contec, right? Killed all those people in front of the Plaza and got fired, right?"

  "In actual fact, someone was firing a 50 cal. frag gun at me. They did most of the killing, but otherwise you're just about right."

  The young man looked like a pirate in his torn sweatsuit and red patterned do-rag. He had a large gold hoop in his left ear and one of his front teeth was missing. He put down his fork and extended a hand.

  "I'm Eddie Fenton. We're sharing a room. I thought we ought to get acquainted."

  "I'm pleased to meet you. It was you we woke up this morning?"

  "Don't worry about it. Stretcher's always pulling shit like that. It's the army in him. I ran into assholes like him in the Yemen."

  "You were in the Yemen?"

  "Sure was. All the fucking way."

  "I was out there too."

  "I know. I heard stories about you. I wasn't exactly in your league."

  "What league?"

  "You know what league. You were one cold motherfucker. I was only a grunt. My only claim to fame was when I shot two lieutenants and a captain in the middle of that mess at Shabwa."

  Fenton was coming on strong, trying to build himself up to Vickers. Vickers smiled while he was wondering what he wanted.

  "What had they done?"

  "They wanted us to go up that hill in the middle of the town while a bunch of fuzzies were at the top with K10s and a T-launcher. We figured it was suicide and drew lots. I won. They were never able to pin it on me but it was a rodeo while they tried."

  "So how did you get here?"

  "Mossman got me out of Joliette."

  Now Vickers was surprised. "Out of jail?"

  "I didn't complain."

  "What were you doing time for?"

  Fenton put down his fork. "You really don't know who I am, do you? I thought you were just being cool."

  "I don't have a clue."

  "You must have been out of the country. Shit, we were famous."

  "I'm sorry."

  "You really never heard about the First National Security hijack?"

  "You're that Eddie Fenton? The Mad Dog? The one who blew away…" Vickers hesitated. Fenton grinned.

  "Twelve counts of murder in the first degree. I'm what they call a sociopath. Paradoxically, though, I also have an exce
ptional talent for team cooperation. I guess that's why Mossman had me pulled out. I was grateful."

  "Do you have any idea what he wanted you for?"

  Fenton had finished his food. He glanced around.

  "Listen, why don't we go back to the room. We can talk there while we get things squared away. I've made a bit of a mess while I've been bunking on my own. I do it to hang up Streicher but you may not want to live in a pigsty."

  "Don't call them the Chorus Line. Only Streicher calls them that. Nobody else likes it, particularly the girls themselves, and don't jump to the conclusion that they're just four long-legged bimbos put here for our entertainment. Debbie can shoot as well as I can and Linda could probably break you in half. The other two aren't far behind, either."

  Vickers raised an eyebrow. "It gets stranger by the minute."

  "Don't it just? You've only started. Wait until you've thought about it a bit."

  Mad Dog Eddie Fenton sat down on his bed and opened a beer. He had clearly thought about it a good deal and was going to give Vickers at least some of the benefit. Vickers also sat down. Squaring away their belongings in the small guest cottage didn't take very long. Neither of them had very much. It was mainly a matter of throwing out the garbage that Eddie had accumulated while he'd had the place on his own. Inside of ten minutes he'd pulled out a six pack and the domestic effort was at an end.

  "For a start, what would you say if I told you that this place was a high-tech fortress?"

  "I wouldn't be that surprised. I suppose you could look on us as valuable property."

  "Pretty damn valuable according to the stuff they've got strung out around this Hollywood nightmare. You want to see the red room."

  "Red room?"

  "Electronic defense control center. Red scopes, sound scoops, ground radar, heat sensors, tremblers, every bit of it is state of the art. They got some nasty stuff out on the perimeter too, remote Claymores, lasers, Bouncing Bettys, crossfire traps. This is no place to go taking an unscheduled stroll."

  "Will I see this red room?"

  Fenton nodded. "I'd imagine so. We all pull guard duty and all that means is that you sit in the red room and stare into the screens."