He leant over to face the Enforcer. "And what about you? You gonna help us out, or do we have to keep chasing your ass all over the city?"
The Enforcer smiled and stared down at the dark streets below. "I'll be helping, all right. From the shadows. That's where I feel at home. Speaking of which, I'd better get down there. See what shape Manhatan's in."
He stood up. Cambridge followed him, and stretched out his hand. "I haven't said thank you yet."
The Enforcer's eyes sparkled. "Well godammit, no you haven't. What an inconsiderate sunnavabitch."
Cambridge grinned. "Goodbye…whoever you are."
Levitt and Carlini stood and solemnly shook hands with the vigilante. Carlini winked at him. "Adios, amigo."
The Enforcer tipped a finger to his hat in a brief salute. "See ya around, asshole."
Then he walked to the open elevator doors and dropped down the shaft, his cape fluttering in the confined space like the beating of giant wings.
The cops sat down again. "You'd have thought he had some kinda miniature helicopter to give us a lift," said Carlini.
Levitt frowned. "Yeah, what about that helisaucer Jankowitz arrived in?"
"Probably a pile of junk by now." Cambridge jumped as the radio came back to life with a deafening squeal of static.
"Luke?" howled the crackling voice of Captain Sullivan. "Luke, if you can hear me, respond, goddammit. We've been trying to get you all night. Can you hear me? Come in, please, Cambridge, Carlini, Levitt, Gonzalez. We've got Rizzo and his men down on the ground and they're giving us a story that's right outta Looney Tunes. Luke, if you can hear–" Cambridge clicked the cut-off button.
"Sounds like the Chief wants us to get off our lazy asses," grunted Levitt. Carlini broke out into fresh peals of laughter. Cambridge frowned. "He'll have to wait. We've got wives and kids to take care of."
"Whattaya saying, Luke?" said Levitt. "You're a cop. The badge comes first. The city always comes first."
Cambridge stared out at the dark, with scattered fires flickering in the blackness like votive candles.
"No," he said quietly. "This time, the city doesn't come first."
Above him, on the lampposts, CCTV cameras turned to follow his path…
ONE
"Give me the cross."
Howard Hopgood winced with pain as he whispered the request; one of the male nurses leaned eagerly toward him, holding out the tiny piece of silverwork. Hopgood closed his mouth around the cross as if it were a communion wafer and worked it under his tongue. He rolled his eyes and lay back on the hospital bed.
Totally typical, thought Prell, standing at the back of the private nursing room, watching the activity with growing impatience. The nurses pushed a small gurney toward Hopgood's bed, the instruments on it gleaming in their sterile purity, intricate as the workings of a watch, as free of blemish as the cross Hopgood pressed down upon with his tongue.
Never misses a chance for mad martyrdom, Prell was thinking. I didn't have to be here for this to see. Business had just about been drawn to a conclusion, satisfactory-ish. But oh no, the old Bible-basher wants for to show the depths of suffering, wants for me to think that he's been given some unique curse – or a unique blessing. Boss showman. Perfect criteria for any TV evangelist, no kid; and Hopgood was the best in Europe, totally facing all the others.
The sheets were pulled back. The nurses peeled away the dressings on Hopgood's abdomen, while the man himself made guttural noises deep in his throat. Prell mentally prepared himself for the stench; within seconds it reached his corner of the room, even through the gauze mask he wore over his nose and mouth.
While on a promotional tour on the south of France, Hopgood had got himself badly sunburned, particularly on the stomach. He received heavy exposure to UVB and UVC rays; his skin blistered and then ulcers developed. To make matters worse, he was also diagnosed as suffering from Type 2 Diabetes.
The new dressings were in place, so the medical staff quietly departed, leaving Hopgood and Jonathon Prell alone once more. The fifty-year-old man lay back on the bed, looking tired, but relaxed. He had a big, square face, with swept-back iron grey hair in long, smooth streaks. His XPT-Meditech bedclothes had a little red and yellow design on them, a marked change from the funereal black and gray Hopgood usually wore on screen.
Hopgood placed his vitamin drink on the bedside table, took the cross from his mouth and laid it in the tiny velvet-lined box. "Son, I want to thank you and all of Meditech for the attention you've given me. My life is in your hands."
"Thank you, Mr. Hopgood. Treatment on your abdomen should be straightforward. However, time will be long-ish before you can re-duty."
Hopgood sucked in air through his teeth. "That hurts more than anything else, son. We have a mandate, from the Savior no less, to spread the word of the Gospel throughout this land, by big screen and small, local networks, cable and satellite. There's not much I can do lying in bed, even if it is a Meditech bed."
"Well, we counsel rest, to the all. You are the final judge on re-working, of course."
"Correction; the Lord will be the final judge. He always is." Hopgood's eyes turned to the gleaming cross on its bed of velvet.
"I guess we have one more business to take care of today." He shot an arched look at Prell. "You've read the file on Bradley?"
"Most assuredly."
"And what are your opinions?"
"Well, you realize that this is, strict-wise, cosmetic surgery. Beyond that, operation simply routine. In the file you were quite specific about skin type, and areas of body under consideration. The operation itself is XPT-Meditech's bread and butter, smooth as."
"And locating Bradley?"
"Locating and approaching him expected to be most sensitive part, no pain. I'll keep you personally informed of our progressing. Rely on me to the utmost."
"I sincerely hope so. I don't need to remind you of the strict confidentiality of my request. If anyone was to know and, shall we say, misinterpret my actions…"
"Rely on me to the utmost and max. If you relate, I'll get working on it now-ish, and leave you to get your strength back. Once again, Mr. Hopgood, your fortitude is admired."
"It's nothing. I don't dwell upon such things. The Lord has given me strength to bear them, and also the sufferings of my congregation, which – after all – are more than my own needs. My flock is what matters. So who else to give my burden to, if not Christ our Savior?"
"Most of our patients, to get them through, have only their own human nature," Prell remarked dryly.
Hopgood laughed, then winced. "That's something I wouldn't recommend, quite frankly."
TWO
If the meaning of the small insignia that was the logo of XPT-Meditech's skincare department had been explained to Howard Hopgood, he would definitely not have approved. The stylized Aztec design, in raw red and gold, was a rendering of Xipe Totec, the Flayed God. In ancient times his priests had emulated their deity by wearing their dried and excised skins of their sacrificial human victims over their own faces and bodies, to symbolize the renewed greenery of spring vegetation. A gruesome concept in itself, but the sanitized totem now adorned most elements of the Skincare department – the business cards, the stationery, the starched white uniforms of the surgical staff.
Prell found his eyes returning to the emblem again and again as he sat quietly within the Area Manager's office. It stood discreetly upon his desk, adorning a pocket-size calendar. Prell waited as Emmanuel Kohain studied the dossier on Bradley.
Kohain took off his reading glasses and reclined in his steel and leather chair. "Most fascinating," he said, giving the phrase the weight of a long-considered pronouncement.
Kohain stood and walked to the well-stocked office drinks cabinet. "Refreshment?"
"Pimms and lemonade, sir."
Kohain poured a Macallan for himself, then mixed the Pimms and handed it to Prell. "That will be three pounds ninety-five."
Prell handed over a five-pound
note and the Area Manager, as befitting his seniority, kept the change.
Prell sipped his refreshment, relishing the coolness on his tongue. "It's a highly warped request."
"Warped isn't the word." Kohain sighed. "Hopgood's really faced it this time. Initial reaction, Jonathan?"
"Aheadways, is rightways."
Kohain smiled faintly. "Unquestionably. Hopgood's initial donation of two million ECUs is already in our bank. I take it the surgery itself is not problemed?"
"No pain. Specified zones of the body are not exactly commonplace, but no problem is represented. All waited for is the donor."
"Yes, the donor. I know the information in this folder is not muchways. Bradley's location unknown?"
"At present, sir. Information on him is prone to exaggeration, and most likely unlegit. No whereabouts at the moment, but all available are being sourced."
"Discretely?"
"No pain."
Prell watched Kohain carefully as he tapped the folder with his thumbs. The Area Manager had a Hopgood-touch about him himself, he thought; the graying hair, the big hands and large facial features, the suggestion that success had somehow larged this person life-wise. To increase this effect, Kohain's speech was a plummy drawl in an impeccable Oxbridge tongue.
"Jonathan," he declared after his moment of contemplation, "use of the Grafters on this one recommended."
Prell tried to conceal his double take but didn't quite manage it. "No fake? I mean, considering all implications security-wise?"
"Oh, your coming round to the idea is expected, Jonathan." Kohain gave him a patronizing smile. "Our world is the world of corporate finance and healthcare. Their world is the world of rumors, urban myth, hoodie gangs and shanty-towns. They access places and people that we don't."
Prell nodded. "Appreciated, but if I'm handling the Hopgood account, danger expected if my contacting known–"
"Yes, anticipated." Another smile, wider than before. "That's why I'm giving the job to Karyn."
Facing bastard, Prell thought, this time determined not to show his feelings. He's watching to see me roll over, belly up.
"Problem, Jonathan?"
"Because she's a woman? Totally not. Karyn can handle herself like butter in the cake." Kohain obviously thought that sending Prell's occasional girlfriend out to deal with the Grafters was an amping little bonus. Keeps the staff toes-conscious, tests for weak links in the chain of command.
"No fear sending Kathryn out into the field," Jonathan lied.
After all, thought Prell as he took the elevator down to the foyer, maybe no fear meant no fake. He'd seen Karyn cut some gnarly executives down to size. She was known company-wise as the tart with a big mouth who got the job done. Perhaps not even the Grafters would face her.
Prell stopped at the plush reception desk to collect his car keys and oxy-filter. Janine, the dusky, wide-lipped receptionist, exchanged ritual flirtations with him. Janine's deportment and appearance was a testimonial for XPT-Meditech, as much a part of their corporate image as the expensive furniture and paintings in the lobby. Only the tiny puckers of pale skin at the corners of Janine's eyes gave away the fact that her face was no longer her own: but nobody, of course, would look that close.
Prell took the glass-sided elevator down to the underground car park. As it slid down the outside of the Globen Building, he gazed down at the plaza below, on the floor level of the Hammersmith Center. Enclosed in a huge translucent dome of lightweight glass-fiber, the air-conditioned and temperature-regulated bubble kept the effects of the smog and sunlight outside from interfering with the health-conscious executives doing business within.
Prell stared out at the glittering sludge of the Thames through the gaps in the skyscrapers as he descended. He shivered in the frigid air that compensated for the greenhouse heat outside the dome. Karyn's probably out there now…watch yourself, Jon, he told himself. If she comes out smooth on this one, she and the old man could have you game, set and match-wise.
THREE
The huge warehouse that stood on the outskirts of Rotherhithe was empty, its ownership in legal limbo, its cavernous interior holding only darkness, arched with the thin metal racks of empty pallets. Beneath a naked light bulb stood Karyn Yuresha, impatiently waiting, immaculate in her turquoise twin-set and matching spectacles. She glanced at her Rolex. They weren't going to turn up. It wasn't the disappointment that made her angry; the place itself wasn't making her nervous; what incensed her was the waste of valuable time.
Shouldering her bag, she was about to leave when light caught her full in the face, a powerful beam cutting from one of the loading bays. The voices called and whistled from all around her, like guests at a surprise birthday party.
"Dollyface, Dollyface. Over 'ere!"
"Clock the gear on this one, Les. Ain't she pretty?"
"Just you leave her to me, old son. Ted 'ere breaks in the casuals. Lookin' for somefink, Dolly?"
They'd been here all along, Karyn thought. In the dark. Watching. Out loud, she called, "Business is intended, and I'm fully scheduled."
Shielding her eyes from the light, she made out a small group of men approaching from the left. Their steel-capped boots scraping on the warehouse concrete, they swaggered toward her, their steps heavy with flabby, beer-filled guts and bloated male machismo. There were half a dozen now at the edge of the light, and one kept striding forwards, until she could see him clearly, his plaster-stained sweater and his disfigured, lascivious face.
"You must have got lost, Dolly. This ain't bleedin' Knightsbridge, you know. Don't want that ream gear of yours to get all tatty, do we?"
The laughter was coarse and malicious.
Karyn looked the man right in the eye, and smiled a wry smile. "I think getting hands dirty is known to both of us, thank you. Now, you have the goods? Or maybe you just re-gather here to talk about them with your," she paused to load the word properly, "mates?"
The fat man pursed his lips, accentuating the ugly sores on them. "Hear that, lads? Dollyface wants old Ted to show her his goods, know what I mean?"
"Whack it on the table, Ted!"
"She wants a slice o'the bacon, Ted! Heheheh!"
Karyn sighed. Ted held up his arm and cocked his head, and the noise died down. "Me and me mates, we like a bit of a laugh, Dollyface. But we all know what we're here for."
To the right, the electric motor of a forklift truck hummed into life, and rubberized wheels spun toward them. It approached, a slender block of shadowed yellow, its forks holding a wooden pallet with a dark bunched mass upon it. It sped into the circle of light, heading directly for Karyn. She did not flinch or drop her cynical smile as the driver stopped the truck dangerously close to her shins.
"How totally amusing." Karyn looked acrimoniously down at the pallet. It held a body – unmistakably a human body – bunched tight in cryowrap.
"Lads!" At Ted's word, two of the Grafters stepped forward to brandish Stanley knives. They began to carefully cut away the cryowrap.
"Go easy, lads. Nothing 'demic, now."
Ted stepped closer to Karyn, this time to share the pride in their work. "All ream gear, this. Only been brown about an hour."
"Brown?"
"Brown bread."
Through the hole cut in the chemically treated plastic, Karyn could see the girl's dead face. Karyn knelt close to inspect. Skin type five, she observed with satisfaction. Nice and dark, plenty of natural melanin. The girl was probably from one of the clinics in the suburbs, where the Workfare lot offered their services as guinea-pigs for the pharmaceutical companies. A handful of Euros for an armful of vaccine. Nevertheless, there were no signs of drug abuse, and even better, no obvious natural blemishes.
"We know what sells, Dolly, but this ain't all. We know what you really want, don't we, lads?" This brought another wave of throaty laughter.
Karyn tensed herself, her face tight with suspicion. "You flatter yourself, Ted, your delivery of anything goods-wise is very much dou
bted."
"Bradley." Ted's eyes glittered.
"Bradley?"
"We know where he lives, and we know you want him."
The fat man drew a scrap of paper from his pocket, waving it before his face. "So let's talk readies, yeah?"
In return, Karyn held out one of her smartcards, a chip in the name of a fictional subsidiary of XPT-Meditech. A tall youth stepped forward to grasp it. He wore a portable General Electrics PC, keyboard and modem slung around his chest, battery strapped to his back. He studied the smartcard through grease-smudged glasses before feeding it into the slot in the computer. His face, like the others, was pocked with pinkish, crusted lesions. Squamous cell carcinoma, and basal cell carcinoma, and Karyn was pretty sure that Ted had cancer of the lip. Malignant skin disorders that the Grifters wore with the same perverse pride as tattoos. They had paid the price of toiling over the years out in the naked, cancerous sun; market traders, building subcontractors, landscape gardeners. Unlike the majority of the British public, however, they sneered at the expensive and sometimes ill-informed ways of the public to protect the complexion. They were Grafters to a man, and they would do what they did best, come acid rain or UV-saturated sunshine.
They also had considerable business acumen. The money encoded in Karyn's smartcard, she realized, was being rerouted through a maze of false accounts and holding companies. Impossible to trace. The youth held up the portable LED screen, grunted, and withdrew the card.
"Happy, Smiler?" The youth grunted again, his mouth a sour grimace.
"Don't mind 'im. That means he's well-pleased." Ted held out the scrap of paper, which Karyn was careful to take without touching Ted's lined hands, his thick fingernails filthy with oil. "Nice to do business with you, Dollyface. Come an' have a beer with the lads next time you want to slum it." This time a cheer went up with the laughter.
Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One Page 20