The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues

by Bard Constantine

  New Haven Blues

  Bard Constantine

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Bard Constantine

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph by Mark Krajnak, Jersey Style Photography

  Cover design by Stefan Prohaczka

  Published by Non Omnis Moriar

  DEDICATION

  To my mother: Beverly Harris, for introducing me to the world of books at a young age, inadvertently opening the doors to the universe…

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are a myriad of online readers and tutors who have in one way or another aided me in accomplishing this task. There are too many to name, but I greatly appreciate you all. Special thanks goes to Mark Krajnak of Jersey Style Photography, who was kind enough to shoot his mug for the cover image, and to Stefan Prohaczka for his invaluable aid in designing an extraordinary cover and introducing me to the culture of dieselpunk. A tip of the fedora to you gents. Last but not least, a very special thanks to Selene Skye Deme, who contributed to this story through her mythology of wolves, Gutter Girls, and a certain tattooed leg that causes a lot of trouble in New Haven.

  After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants of mankind survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.

  However the new age was not the type that the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm had resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict that threatened to destroy the future envisioned by the Haven’s founders.

  This is the world of Mick Trubble, a man without a past. A man with nothing to lose. But when your luck is down and no one else can help you, he can. He takes the cases that no one else will touch. The type of trouble that no one else can handle.

  Mick Trubble is…

  The Troubleshooter.

  Chapter One: A Dame With Trubble

  Whoever said that misery loves company was right on the money—and probably the loneliest soul on the planet. Because the problem is that company doesn’t love you back. Being miserable is actually a rather dismal and insular experience, something I can relate to from prolonged exposure.

  Naturally the depression was complimented by the sound of rain pounding the pavement outside my grime-streaked windows. I didn’t complain, though. Most folks hate the rain 'cause they're thinking about their hair or their darb rags that are about to get soaked. Then you got those daisies that get all depressed and sit around crying and writing poetry and all.

  But me?

  Suited my mood just fine. The office air conditioner blew its circuits a while back, so I kinda liked it when the rain cooled things down. You know; washed some of the grime off the streets and into the gutters where it belonged. It never lasted. The cleanness, I mean. That's about the only thing you could bank on in New Haven.

  Nothing ever stayed clean.

  The office air tasted like menthol. Wisps lazily drifted from the ashtray and were scattered like cowardly ghosts by the ceiling fan. I reclined with my heels on the desk, enjoying the moment with a couple of friends: The Mean Ol' Broad and Jack.

  It was a celebration of sorts. My life of memory blackouts, hard drinking, and skirt chasing had finally come to its anti-climatic conclusion. I figured it was only a matter of hours before the Russians broke down the door in a hail of hot lead and bad breath. I'd run out of places to hide, and the only reason I was in my office was because it was common knowledge that I hated to work.

  Figured it would be last place they checked.

  I had just poured another shot when my secretary buzzed over the intercom. “You…have a…cclient…Mr. Trrrubble.”

  Pris was an older model android, and like me she had seen better days. I got a great deal on her once most folks upgraded to synoids. Synoids imitate humans much better than androids, but that’s a bit creepy to me. I always get the feeling that one day they’ll try to replace us and the whole world will be full of walking mannequins.

  Besides, I couldn’t afford one. Pris’ audio chip dragged a bit, but I didn’t mind so much. Wasn’t like I needed her to sing soprano for the opera.

  I figured if my guests were Nimrods, they would’ve scattered her circuits and kept coming. Even so, I reached under the desk and positioned the scattergun I had in place. It pays to be paranoid when there’s a price on your head. I told Pris to admit them, and placed my finger on the trigger as the door opened.

  It wasn’t the Russians. I should have been relieved. I wasn’t.

  Because the doll that entered was even worse. I could tell from the staccato of her stilettos as they tortured my floor. The way she entered like a queen coming down to whip some peasants into shape.

  The dame was from money. I could see that in the burgundy velvet of her skirt, which discreetly covered her gams but hugged the ample hips. The black lacey blouse was suggestive yet elegant, complimented by matching gloves. Looked like genuine oyster fruit around her neck, too. Her hair was expertly flipped under her black beret.

  Brunette, too, which made me focus past the Jack and concentrate. A true brunette can get over a man real quick if he’s not thinking straight. Her eyes were either gray or blue depending on how the light caught them. In either case, they took in the shambles that passed for my office in a blink.

  The lug that shadowed her didn't look local. Best guess, I'd say originally from India. ‘Course seeing as the world has been displaced for quite some time, nationality don’t mean much anymore.

  His long black flogger concealed a lot, but if he wasn't packing heat then I'm the mayor of New Haven. The aggressive way he shook off the umbrella along with the warning look in his dark eyes confirmed him as her hired bruno.

  I caught that in about two seconds.

  I hadn't moved other than to take my finger off the trigger and my heels off the desk. A man has to have some formalities. I gestured to the battered seats in front of me.

  "Please. Have a seat, Ms…?

  "Kilby. The name is Kilby.” She sat with natural grace, crossing one black stocking-clad leg over the other.

  I slid a spare glass her way. "Giggle juice?"

  "Not when I'm on business, thank you."

  She opened a silver case and selected a smoke. I fumbled for my lighter, but the bruno was quicker, lighting her gasper so smoothly it felt choreographed.

  "Thank you, Poddar.” She blew a thin stream of poison so elegantly that it almost irritated me. I was suddenly aware of the water stains in the ceiling; the cigarette burns in the ratty carpet. With the drunken stacks of wires and busted consoles scattered about, my entire office looked one step short of a complete meltdown.

  "So, Miss Kilby. What can I do you for?"

  "I hear you're a Troubleshooter. A good one."

  "Really? Who tipped you on that score?"

  She smiled and ignored the question.

  Smart lady.

  "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Trubble. One that will be quite…profitable if you accept it."

  I shrugged casually. "I've never had a problem with profit, Ms. Kilby. What's the proposition?"

  That was all the cue she needed. Her pose was perfect; one hand on her crossed leg, the other holding the gasper with a delicately bent wrist.

  "I represent an individual of no certain shortage of wealth and power. This individual has a problem with another individual who is responsible for the removal of an object of great value. The individual that I represent would like that objec
t returned undamaged, and is willing to pay a substantial amount to the person responsible for the deed. Since the nature of both property and individuals involved are of a sensitive nature, the individual I represent feels it prudent to take care of said situation outside the boundaries of the law. This is where you come in, Mr. Trubble."

  Boy, that dame could jaw. Most of my mind had drifted to old romantic interests over the time she dealt her spiel. The remainder still paid attention, though.

  I nodded in a thoughtful manner. "So your boss wants me to get some stolen goods back. Ok, I get it. 'Substantial amount' is a kinda vague term, though. You're gonna have to do better than that if you wanna pique my interest, sweetheart."

  Her distractingly seductive lips curved in a ‘gotcha’ kind of smile. "Very well, Mr. Trubble. For return of said property, the individual I represent is willing to pay the sum of one million dibs. The payment is custodian. In your account upon your agreement, and released when the job is finished."

  If heaven had poured honey in my ears, the sound couldn't have been sweeter. Without a decent case in months, I’d been down on my uppers and owed a few pretty pennies to a few dirty chumps. I was so euphoric that I didn't even hear the alarms going off in my head.

  I poured another shot of Jack in celebration.

  "Well, I must say that sounds like a desperate individual you represent, Ms. Kilby. But I'm feeling pretty damn gracious today, so I'll take the gig. I think you'd do best to drop all this 'individual' talk and let me know who's got this property, and where exactly I can find him."

  "Finding him won't be the problem, Mr. Trubble. I'm sure you've heard of him if you're as well informed as I believe you are. You may know him better by his street moniker. He's called Tommy. Tommy Tsunami."

  The sharp crack was overly loud in the accompanying silence. I looked at the remnants of the shot glass that had shattered in my hand. The liquor and blood ran freely together, spattering on my desktop in a Rorschach pattern. Oddly detached, I thought I saw my future in those red-gold blots.

  It didn't look pretty.

  Chapter 2: When It Rains

  “Why Mr. Trubble, are you all right?” Ms. Kilby raised an eyebrow as if I wasn’t dripping blood all over my desk. “Poddar, why don’t you see to the man?”

  The bruno was just as concerned. “He’s fine.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I swiped papers out of the way awkwardly so I could press the First Aid button. A couple of mechanized arms emerged from the box and whirred over my injury. “‘Course this never would’ve happened if you’d have shot straight from the start, sister. You could’ve just said you were talking about Tommy ‘touch of death’ Tsunami!”

  I felt pretty sorry for myself as the medimech cleaned and wrapped up my hand.

  “You wanna know why he got the name Tsunami? Because of all the stiffs he leaves in the wake of being bent. Bullet-ridden buildings, cement shoes, scattered limbs and all.”

  I fumbled for a smoke, which was hard to do with a bum hand. “Deal’s off, darling.” I took a hard drag on sweet nicotine. “Money ain’t worth getting smoked over. Find another patsy to do your dirty work.”

  “You’re the only patsy I need, Mr. Trubble. Please don’t insult my intelligence by acting as though you have a choice in this.”

  “Really?” I reclined and put my heels back on the desk where they belonged, ignoring Poddar’s warning frown. “You gonna tell me why I should stop the Mean Ol’ Broad from showing both of you the way out?”

  Ms. Kilby’s eyes glimmered like newly polished bullets. She had one those mystery smiles that dames put away for special occasions. “You have two major problems, Mr. Trubble. You gamble, and you lose. Badly. You’re in for 500 large with the Russians. Not to mention quite a few yards scattered across town. These people are not known for their patience. I hear the Goryachevas have a mark out for your head.”

  She had me and she knew it. Debt is like one of my ex-girlfriends.

  Every time I think I’ve left it behind, it comes out of nowhere to kick me in the nuts.

  Ms. Kilby leaned back. “So the offer still stands. The deal is: Poddar will accompany you. Just to insure you don’t take a sudden vacation and try to hack the dibcard. Not that I’d ever accuse you of being so cowardly.”

  I mentally canceled my vacation plans. “Of course not.”

  “He is your partner now. If you want your payment, all you have to do is keep him close at all times. You know, like a Siamese twin.”

  Poddar tossed a dibcard on the desk. A custodian account like the dame said. Took two separate thumbprints and two ID codes to complete the transfer to my account. Mine, and unless my powers of perception went the way of the formerly united States, the other would be Kilby’s. The funds couldn’t be retracted from my account, but I couldn’t extract them either without the other thumbprint and code.

  One million large. The glow of the digital numbers blushed soft red on the display. That much lettuce could take care of a lot of problems, mainly the ones with Russian names. I casually tucked it in my shirt pocket.

  “Thing is, neither of us are Siamese. I’m more like the bad boy on the playground –I don’t share, I don’t play fair, and I don’t like the other kids. This ain’t gonna work, sweetheart. I’m a solo act. Besides, who’s gonna guard that pretty body of yours if your bruno is with me?”

  She had already walked to the door. “That’s awful gallant of you to be concerned for me, Mr. Trubble. A blunt object like yourself may not have the imagination to conceive this, but a lady is not entirely helpless these days. While being without Poddar is inconvenient, I assure you that I can manage.”

  She paused. “Before you get any bright notions about Poddar, realize that in his homeland they called him the Prince. Some foolish individuals thought they could get away with kidnapping children from his village for the slave trade. He was the only one sent after the assailants. He brought every child home safely. The kidnappers weren't so fortunate.”

  She favored him with a genuine smile that vanished when she turned to me. “Have a care, Mr. Trubble. I’ll be in touch, unless you manage to get killed before that can occur.”

  The door slid shut as she passed through the front office and exited into the rain. I was left with the Prince, who gazed at me somberly.

  “How is that cut doing?” His tone had the perfect degree of unconcerned concern.

  “Don’t worry, my trigger finger is just fine.”

  I grabbed my flogger and hat from the rack beside the door. Can’t be a Troubleshooter without the proper uniform. The flogger concealed the heat, and the fedora is all about attitude. That’s why in New Haven it’s referred to as the Bogart. There’s a lot of ways to wear a Bogart, and each one gives a clear indicator of your state of mind. I tilted mine forward so that it shadowed my eyes. To anyone approaching, it was a clear sign that I was on official Troubleshooter business.

  The last thing I picked up was my lucky card off the desk. The Joker. I never left home without him.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Have a ggggood dday, Mr. Trrrubble.” Pris twitched and shuddered at her desk.

  Poddar paused. “Wow. That’s about the oldest model android I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Yeah, I’m…restoring her. She’ll be worth a lot of berries one day.” I stepped toward the door to avoid further embarrassment.

  Poddar looked at the faded letters on the glass. “So why are you called a Troubleshooter? Because of your name?”

  “Just a coincidence, Ace. I guess when times were civilized I’d have been called a private investigator. Nowadays when people got nowhere else to turn, they give me a call.”

  “And what exactly is it that you do?”

  I grinned. “I do pretty much what the name implies. I shoot trouble.”

  We stepped outside and eyeballed the downpour. Good thing my flogger was waterproof.

  Poddar looked glum from under the doorway canopy. “It’s rained almost every
day since I got here. Is it always like this?”

  “Yeah, you’d think the labcoats at Environmental would be able to do something about it, but that would be too much to ask. They give you a lot of blab about recycling the outside climate, but I figure it’s just to keep the residents depressed and drinking booze.” I chuckled around my gasper. “That’s my excuse, anyway.”

  We walked under the covered sidewalk to avoid being soaked. I looked at Poddar. “So you’re coming in from another Haven? We don’t get a lot of outsiders here. You didn’t have the same problem?”

  Poddar frowned as if trying to remember. I figured it was more like trying to decide what to tell me.

  “I was raised in India, in one of the sanctuary cities outside the main Haven. I was never fortunate enough to win the entrance lottery, so this is the first Haven that I’ve been inside. I hear that many other Havens have to ration their water supply, so I guess you should be grateful.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, with so much of the city’s energy diverted to the shield that separates us from the Outside, I guess it’s a wonder that anything works right.”

  He frowned and looked around. “I didn’t expect it to be like—this.”

  I grinned. “Welcome to New Haven, kid. Not exactly the utopia you imagined, right? Things tend to go to ground pretty quickly when you cram a bunch of humans in an artificial construct, even if it is to survive the Cataclysm.”

  The disappointment was clear on Poddar’s face. “We were always told that the Havens were the model of citizenship. That they were conceived with idea of rising above the self-destructive mindset that nearly destroyed us in the first place.”

  I blew a stream of gasper smoke into the rain. “Yeah. Go figure.”

  My office was crammed alongside so many others on a narrow avenue in the Flats. The neighborhood was a mass of old and decrepit office buildings, crumbling hotels and tenements. Once it was the heart of the city before businesses moved Uptown. The buildings were abandoned or turned to public housing units, and you know the rest of the story.