Hamilton then left the hotel and caught a taxi to the north sector. His apparently aimless wandering around invariably led him to his desired destination. Today, however, it took a little longer than usual. It was beginning to get dark when Hamilton spotted Jones’s apartment block in the distance. He set out on foot for the building
After a further quarter of an hour he was nearing the block. A narrow alley led between two high buildings. In the failing light Hamilton could not see the far end. It did, however, lead directly toward the building. Hamilton started down it without hesitation.
The alley was littered with rubbish. Bins, long-since forgotten by the collectors, festered and stank. Hamilton marched briskly along, glancing backwards and upwards at regular intervals. There were several doors along alley but all were closed.
Ahead of him, Hamilton noticed a figure. He was about six feet, medium build, wearing dark clothing. He stood in the middle of the alley, blocking passage.
Hamilton slowed cautiously and looked behind him. Another man, similarly clad and built, was coming out into the alley through one of the doors that Hamilton had noticed. A third man followed him quickly. The pair advanced toward Hamilton.
It was almost a text-book mugging scenario. Unfortunately for the muggers, Hamilton was not a text-book victim.
He wasted no time, turning and moving rapidly toward the first man, who assumed a ready stance. Hamilton noted the glint of metal in the man’s right hand. He heard running steps behind him.
Upon reaching the man Hamilton stopped abruptly, in mid stride. The man slashed at the spot Hamilton would have been in had he not stopped. Hamilton lunged forward and grabbed the fellow’s hand, twisting it viciously. The man shrieked in pain, dropping the knife.
Hamilton then pulled the man toward him by his wrist, bent and lifted the man up on his shoulder. He dumped him behind, in the path of the other two, then took a stride forward, picked up the man’s knife and turned to face the others.
They had just reached their companion and hopped over him. They also had knives. The first man rushed straight in, attempting to stick his knife in Hamilton’s stomach. Hamilton stepped aside, grabbed the man’s collar, and threw him to the ground on his back.
The second man was more cautious and stepped back rapidly, reversing his knife as he did so. Hamilton read his intent and threw his blade before the other could. Such light knives were unlikely to penetrate the jackets the men wore, so Hamilton threw the knife at the man’s face, a risky target in the dim light, but at least it would buy him time to reposition.
The small blade missed the man’s eye, which had been Hamilton’s target, and flew into his open mouth. The man gurgled and staggered backwards, tripping over the first man Hamilton had engaged. He also dropped his knife.
The first man staggered to his feet and jumped over his gurgling friend. He ran off down the alley.
The second man, from on the ground, slashed at Hamilton’s leg with his knife. Hamilton hopped out of reach, then kicked the man with force. The fellow curled up, gasping.
Hamilton backed down the alley. Neither of the two remaining men showed any enthusiasm to get up and continue the attack. The man with the knife in his mouth succeeded in pulling it free. Blood was gushing from his mouth. He dropped the knife quickly when he saw Hamilton was still nearby and dragged himself away. The other man was also trying to get away.
Hamilton turned away from them and continued his journey, glancing back occasionally to make sure that they had not changed their minds. They had not. Presently, he reached the end of the alley, and saw Jones’s block ahead of him.
A swift walk across a deserted road saw him to his destination.
Jones was not in. Hamilton briefly considered letting himself in and waiting, but reasoned that Jones wouldn’t appreciate such liberties taken with his property. He walked along the landing until he reached a window at the far end. The glass had been smashed out long ago. He stared out across Jones’ world.
The north sector was, as Jones had described, a ghetto. Worse, it was a run-down ghetto. Hamilton had been in a few during his lifetime, mostly due to his work, and the scene before him was typical.
All the buildings were high-risers, built cheaply and, no doubt, with sub-standard materials. Since this was a colony, there were no old buildings, such as found in the ghettos of Earth, but nevertheless, the scene had a tired, worn look to it. Graffiti was scrawled across all the reachable walls and, Hamilton was amused to note, across many areas that would have required acrobatics to reach. It consisted of the typical gang-related materiel. Challenges to rival gangs, declarations of superiority and so forth. In addition, the odd piece of true art lay sprinkled amongst it.
The streets were not immune from this treatment, either. Seemingly meaningless bands of colour to a pedestrian revealed themselves as more legible writing to those with a loftier vantage point.
In addition to the graffiti, the streets were filled with garbage. Hamilton had already seen ample evidence of the lack of efficient refuse disposal in the area. The garbage was not merely of the household variety, either. Old furniture, wrecked cars, dead animals and piles of shattered glass were just a few of the more readily identifiable items he could see. Once again, he counted himself lucky not to be among those who had to live in such a place.
There was no sign of Jones. Indeed, no sign of anybody abroad as night fell. He settled himself in to wait.
Time passed. Hamilton grew bored. He decided to climb to the roof.
The roof was as littered and graffiti ridden as any other part of the area. In addition, it was another ten floors up.
Hamilton toured the perimeter, looking at the new vistas from each side. The views were much the same.
To the west, however, he saw the gleam of a neon sign several streets away. He pulled a small pair of folding binoculars from his jumpsuit and scrutinized the place.
It was a bar; Smokin’ Pete’s by name. Hamilton could not see much within, but the place looked mostly deserted. He watched it for ten minutes but saw no one come or go. He was thirsty.
On the way down he checked Jones’ apartment again. There was still no answer, so he continued on down. In a few minutes he was outside the building and heading towards the bar. The journey was uneventful and the most excitement he had was a face-off against a particularly large rat. After sizing each other up, the two went their separate ways.
Hamilton stopped on the corner opposite the bar, watching for a couple of minutes more. Still, no-one came or went from the place, yet the ‘open’ sign was clearly displayed. Either it was too early for the regulars, or the place was simply unpopular.
He crossed the street and pushed the door open.
The interior was hot and unpleasant. There was the odour of illegal substances in the air. A scattering of old tables and mismatched chairs filled the floor space. The bar itself was small and tended by one man. There were only two other people in the place.
Hamilton wandered over to the bar and sat on one of the ancient bar stools. The bar man, a huge black fellow, retrieved his joint from where he’d hidden it at Hamilton’s entrance and resumed puffing on it.
“What’ll it be?” he drawled. Hamilton observed the others’ pupil dilation. He understood the bar’s name, now.
“You must be Pete.” he said.
The other scowled. “So what if I am?”
Hamilton shrugged. “Nothing. I just want a drink.”
The barman looked suspiciously at Hamilton for a moment before nodding. “Like I said. What’ll it be?”
Hamilton picked a name from amongst the local brews on offer. The barman snorted and proceeded to pour Hamilton a shot.
“Two cees.” The barman demanded.
Hamilton was discreet in removing the small bills from his pockets. He’d only just got an advance against his card. He was carrying perhaps more than was advisable in such quarters.
The barman scowled and examined the practically new bills wit
h some suspicion. Satisfied, he thrust them out of sight someplace below the bar. There didn’t appear to be a till.
“New in town, huh?” The barman asked.
“So what if I am?” Hamilton said easily.
The barman shrugged. “No concern of mine.”
“Right.” Hamilton agreed, sipping his drink. It was remarkably pleasant with a fruity taste he couldn’t identify. Somewhere between peaches and melons, he decided. From the barman’s reaction when he’d ordered it he assumed it was a drink normally bought by women.
The other two occupants of the bar sat at a table together. From the number of empty glasses stacked before them they had obviously been there for some time. They paid him no attention, which was fine by him.
The barman had seated himself behind the bar, at the opposite end from Hamilton. It didn’t seem like a particularly friendly place. He sipped his drink slowly, allowing the time to slip by.
The first drink didn’t take long to finish. Hamilton was disappointed to find only fifteen minutes gone by. He ordered another from the drugged barman and sat some more.
He managed to nurse the second drink for half an hour. He ordered a third, and his last, he told himself and went to sit by the window. It had been shattered at some point in its life and the owner, unable to buy a new one, had taped the largest fragments together, replacing lost fragments with card and wood. A refreshing draught whistled through the numerous holes, forcing back the drug-haze that permeated the bar a little.
Hamilton reflected on what he was about to do. Vogerian seemed to have something up his sleeve. Whatever it was, though, Hamilton was confident he would be up to the challenge. Worst case, he thought, would be that all the crew were in on it except him and had hidden weapons. In which case, he’d need some back-up. There really was only one choice: Klane. She was more than a match for anyone he knew, himself included. Her unique blend of…talents, would be invaluable.
His other assistant concerned him. He had thought to ask Jones. The man seemed as if he could do with a break, but what did Hamilton really know of him? The answer was nothing. He’d seemed trustworthy enough, but freely admitted
to being a thief. He considered what he’d say if someone he’d recently given a lift to turned up with such an unlikely job offer. It didn’t take long to work it out. He’d say no. Most likely he would think he was being set up, conned. Hamilton shrugged. If Jones said no it made little difference. He was sure Klane would have a few buddies she could trust.
On the other hand, he wasn’t far from Jones’ place. Perhaps the man frequented this bar. If so, the barman ought to know him.
Hamilton drained the last of his drink and ambled over to the bar again.
“Same again?” The barman inquired. Hamilton thought he detected an edge of hopefulness in the man’s voice. Judging from the lack of custom, he wasn’t much surprised.
“No thanks,” he replied. “But I could use some information.”
The barman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What kind of information?”
Hamilton produced a fifty from his jumpsuit. “The kind that doesn’t come free.”
Smokin’ Pete’s eyes widened momentarily before narrowing even further. “What are you? A cop?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Of course not! I just need information.”
“About what?”
“A local resident.”
“Shit! I knew it, you’re a cop!”
Hamilton frowned. “No, I’m not. But I guess I’ll have to ask elsewhere.” He began to put the fifty away.
“Hold on a moment!” Pete told him. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you! I’m just suspicious, that’s all.”
“That’s funny,” Hamilton observed. “I thought you were called Smokin’ Pete. Not Suspicious Pete.”
“Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Just someone with fifty cees to spend, that’s all.”
The barman wavered uncertainly for a moment. Greed finally won out. He reached over and snatched the note. It disappeared out of sight faster than Hamilton could follow it. “What do you want to know?”
“I need some information on a man named Jones. Jonah Jones.” he answered.
By the expression of the barman, Hamilton deduced he was well known. “Well?” he prompted.
“I don’t know much.” Pete said.
“Go ahead.”
“He lives in the high-rise two blocks over,” The barman gestured in the correct direction. “Tenth floor, room fifteen. At least, that’s where he keeps his ‘merchandise’.”
“What kind of man is he?” Hamilton asked.
Pete shrugged. “Doesn’t come in here often, only when he’s
‘celebratin”. Pays his bills, though.”
“And his business?”
Again the shrug. “Nothin’ legal, that’s for sure. Burglary, mostly, I guess.”
“Family?”
“Hey! What do I look like? His brother?”
“Just trying to get my money’s worth.”
Pete scowled. “I ain’t never seen no family. Not even any friends, come to think of it. Plenty of hangers-on, though, mostly when he’s got money.”
Hamilton nodded, thinking back to when he’d first met Jones. “Any friends offworld, or leaving recently?”
Pete shrugged again. “Not that I know of. Still, I guess a man in his position would find it difficult to sell some stuff here.”
“Anything else?”
Pete shook his head. “Like I said. He don’t come in here often.”
“OK. Thanks.” Hamilton nodded. It wasn’t much to go on. He resolved to return and wait at Jones’ apartment. He just hoped the man was pulling some kind of all-night job. He turned to leave.
The door banged open at that point and four men walked in, wearing long coats. Anything at all could be concealed under them, Hamilton reasoned.
Hamilton decided to remain on his stool.
Two of the men remained by the door whilst the other pair walked over to the bar. Their swagger expressed great confidence. Hamilton noted identical tattoos on the side of each man’s head. They were, undoubtedly, gang-members.
Surprisingly, in this neighbourhood, the leader wasn’t a black man, though his three stooges were. Hamilton judged him of Hispanic origins. He slapped his hands down on the bar and grinned. “Howdy Pete!”
Pete nodded nervously. “Howdy Steel.” he replied.
“I guess you know what time it must be?” Steel asked, eyebrows raised.
Pete nodded again. “Sure. Must be payday, hey?”
Steel nodded. “That’s right!”
Pete fumbled below the bar. “I got your pay right here.” He emerged holding a fistful of notes. Hamilton tried not to groan when he saw his fifty amongst them.
Steel took the money with an amused expression on his face. “Looks like you get to stay open a little longer, huh? But what have we here?”
The fifty was pulled out and subjected to scrutiny.
“A fifty!” Steel exclaimed. “And a new one!” He glanced at Pete with a “you’ve-been-holding-out-on-us” look.
Pete waved his hands negatively. “It’s not mine, someone gave it to me!”
Steel cocked his head to one side. “Who’d give you a fifty?” he snorted. “The mayor?”
His cohorts chuckled.
“Or maybe an alien landed and forced it on you, huh?”
Pete was paling rapidly. “No! I swear! It was given to me!”
Hamilton could see what was coming. He readied himself.
“Given to you!” Steel repeated. “By who?”
Pete decided to shift Steel’s attention. “By him.” he pointed at Hamilton. It had the desired effect.
Steel turned to Hamilton, seeming to notice him for the first time. “And who, my friend, are you?”
Hamilton decided the barman had suffered enough. “That’s none of your business.”
Steel and his companions forgot Pete. The other two
drinkers had slipped under their table and not because of the alcohol they’d imbibed.
Steel stared at Hamilton in amazement. “Hey man! You better wise up real quickly.”
Hamilton took note of where everyone’s hands were. He stared at Steel, eye to eye. “Or else?” It was a calculated tone of voice. Calculated to generate a reaction.
Steel was fast, Hamilton had to give him that, but not that fast. The knife whipped out of the gang-leader’s sleeve was thin and sharp and intended to slash Hamilton’s throat open. Hamilton leant in and wrapped his arm around the others’, lifting violently. Steel shrieked as his arm snapped and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. A kick tipped Steel and his stool over, into the second gang member. Both collapsed in a heap.
The two by the door brought scatterguns out of their coats and brought them up to bear. Hamilton dove to the floor as the guns boomed overhead. Some things - a lot of things - smashed and shattered behind him. He snatched up Steel’s fallen knife and hurled it at one of the gunmen. It stuck in his chest and he collapsed, gurgling ridiculously.
The other one pumped his weapon and prepared to fire again. Hamilton caught up a stool and flung it at him. The gun boomed a second time and the stool disintegrated. Hamilton charged in, heedless. He barged the second gunman through the door and both of them fell in a heap, wrestling for the gun.
The weapon’s breach was open, previous cartridge ejected. Hamilton spat into it and muttered. “I wouldn’t fire that if I were you.” Then he was up and running. The gunman rose also and examined his weapon uncertainly, hesitating. By the time he’d decided that spit wasn’t going to impair its firing Hamilton had vanished from sight.
Jones was in when Hamilton reached his place a second time. Hamilton refrained from mentioning either the incident in the alley or at the bar. After all, Jones might know the men involved. That wouldn’t get them off to a good start.
Jones broke the initial ice by asking how Hamilton’s meeting had gone. It was clear that he knew Hamilton wasn’t here for a social call.
Hamilton first asked Jones to put on some music. Hamilton believed in being ever cautious. If anyone had followed him from the hotel then they could be nearby with a rifle microphone, listening in. Jones obliged with the music and, when it became clear that Hamilton was concerned about eavesdroppers, switched on some electronic gadgets of his own.
Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope Page 5