The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  "Well, Winn," I say, swiftly rolling out of bed wearing my slate-colored cotton sleeping pants and pink tank top. "This is the way it is." I walk toward the door to the hallway stairs, tying up my hair and growing too annoyed to even use our private bathroom. "What would you have us do? Start a retirement plan? Research school districts?" I need coffee and a cup of cold water with some painkillers, then a nice, long, hot and cold shower.

  "Look," Winn raises his voice, "all I'm saying is we have no plan to get off this track—"

  "What track?"

  "Exactly! You don't even seen the problem."

  "What problem!" What's the matter with him? He willingly joined our crew. Now he wants out? "What track were you on before you sliced open that patient's—"

  Winn slams his hands down on the bed. "Not fair!"

  "No! What's not fair is this existentialist shit you're dumping on me. Whadda you think was going to happen when you joined?" He's been with us for months, pulled numerous jobs. Where is this coming from?

  Winn won't look at me, too pissed from the underhanded comment on his fall from grace and malpractice suit. He just sits there, his fists clenched down by his sides. But what does he expect? That'd we live frugally, plan prudently, and then what? What's the point of that—watching life pass you by as you sit on a modest-sized mound of gold hoping it will last?

  I didn't grow up in a life where everything was handed to me. I didn't get the luxury of worrying about what college I would go to, or what my future rich husband would look like, or what the freaking job market would be like when I graduated.

  I worried about things like eating, and sleeping in a place where groping hands or worse couldn't find me. I still remember the years before my father (the local Boss of Atlanta) officially recognized me, and before I met Puo, being in a run-down bathroom with pea-green stained walls with only two of the four vanity lights working, staring in the rectangular smeared mirror wondering if my nine-year-old breasts were even large enough to sell, if I even had the guts to do it.

  What are we doing this for?

  So I don't have to ever stare at myself in mirror like that again.

  What's the end game? No idea. But a stagnant life trapped down by kids and a mortgage and worrying about schools and retirement ain't it. I've seen that life, exploited the boredom of the suburban housewife/-husband for a nice profit. They plod through life, priming their screaming primate children to plod through life as well. No thanks.

  Is that what Winn wants for us?

  I’d rather live and die on my wit, my cunning, and my own two hands.

  On my way out of the bedroom I suddenly turn and snap at Winn, "And we don't blow money!" I will never, ever put myself in a position that lands me back in another horrible, awful, pea-green stained bathroom. "We reinvest it: in equipment, in connections, in research."

  Winn stares at the wall opposite him, his jaw set.

  We live in the moment, because that's all we have. We enjoy what bounty we can, because only God knows what fresh hell He'll unleash on us tomorrow.

  I let the door slam on my way out.

  * * *

  The kitchen is downstairs to the right of the fold-back wooden staircase. The stairs flare out at the bottom, and the narrow, faded green running carpet traveling down the middle of it feels thin under my bare feet.

  Puo is already awake and sitting in the back of the double-wide galley kitchen at the dark round wooden kitchen table we picked up dumpster-diving at a local university—the table is out of place to say the least.

  The kitchen is decked out in white marble countertops, a dark hardwood floor, white custom cabinets and glossy subway tile as back-splash. Oh, and the chicest set of appliances around, of course. Not sure why I feel the need for a nice kitchen—I don't cook. Neither does Puo. Stupid gender roles. Maybe I can make Winn ....

  Ugh. Winn and his existentialist crap. I get pissed all over again. What does he want—for us to get laci jobs?

  "Morning," Puo says. Puo's equipment is lying around him on the dinged and divotted tabletop. The solid-state external drive is in a black electro-magnetic (EM) vacuum bag next to a pair of two-tiered magnifying glasses.

  I mumble back a greeting. All three of us are currently living together, which really isn't much of a problem. It's a big house, and Puo and I have lived together before. The problem is, the house is also acting as our headquarters at the moment. All our equipment and compromising evidence is close at hand—generally not a good idea. The new, permanent headquarters should be ready in the next few months.

  I ignore Puo. I really just want my latte and then to go sit out on the covered back porch before it gets too hot. I move over to the espresso machine on the white marble countertop and unhook the portafilter—inside the filter is a soupy, goupy mess.

  "Espresso machine's broke," Puo says.

  "Did you try fixing it?" I ask, annoyed.

  "Nope," Puo says.

  Puo's handy with all kinds of stuff, but he leaves the espresso machine to me. He doesn't drink coffee, and he maintains that everyone should be able to fix at least one thing competently.

  "Why did you even try to make any?" I ask, still annoyed. The headache is starting to take root and pound in on my temples.

  Puo chuckles.

  I'm about ready to throw the portafilter at him.

  "I didn't," Puo says, still smiling wide. "You did. Last night."

  "What?" Oh, hell. A murky memory surfaces of wanting some coffee to make sure Winn and I had enough energy before heading upstairs. I think both of us initially passed out with our clothes still on.

  "I said—" Puo starts.

  I divert him by asking, "What are you working on?" I grab a cold glass of water to help with my body heat and dry mouth, and painkillers to deal with the growing headache.

  "Examining our hard-earned goods."

  The water is cool, refreshing; it feels like a springtime rain in the desert.

  I empty out the portafilter and restuff it. "And?" I ask. I had plans to unload the drive this afternoon, turn those quants into something more liquid and substantial to pay the Citizen Maker and hopefully have some left over for some real furniture for this place.

  "And," Puo says, "I'm confused."

  I reattach the portafilter and hit the start button. The machine gives a deep chugging sound and vibrates on the marble countertop. "That's like saying I like coffee, Puo."

  No espresso is coming out. The machine chugs some more then gives up, hissing out white hot steam from around the portafilter, and then starts beeping at me. Damn.

  "It's not quants," Puo says conversationally.

  "What?" I whirl around. "What's on it then?"

  "I don't know."

  "You can't read it or—"

  "I can read it. I just don't know what any of it means."

  "When were you going to tell me?"

  "I just did. I thought you two could use some sleep."

  The espresso machine gives a final hur-umph! and then squats on the countertop blinking a white flag at me.

  "What specifically is on it?" I ask.

  "Tables of some kind," Puo asks. "Not sure what they correspond to. They're not encrypted, but they do appear to be in some personal code specific to the owner."

  Great. Just freaking great. Quants are easy. But whatever this is, isn't. We may be able to sell the external drive to an interested buyer (after first finding one) or the drive's contents may lead us to a score. But either option is going to require more work and we're rapidly running out of time.

  "Hey!" Puo calls out as I leave the kitchen. "Where you goin'?"

  * * *

  Hayes doesn't even wait a full twenty-four hours before making contact again. This guy is going to get really annoying.

  I'm standing in line at the Yellow Coffee House three blocks over from our house trying not to leap over the wooden rail and strangle the indecisive middle-aged white woman holding up the line. Just pick something already.
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  The coffee house is as its namesake would suggest: a bright yellow motif to annoy the shit out of any day. I'm here alone, leaving Winn and Puo behind, and I'm glad the owner doesn't seem to be in. I couldn't take her constantly beaming a smile at me and trying to make cheery small talk. Fortunately, the espresso here makes up for the visual and verbal affront—if I ever get to the damn register.

  Winn had been in the shower when I went upstairs to change—which made him easy to avoid but left me leaving the house without a shower. So on top of being bitchy, hung over, and in need of coffee, I also feel particularly gross after the three-block walk in the rising humidity.

  Before I get to the register (two people ahead of me, one looks like a doe-eyed man-calf in the coffee house for a first time—great), Hayes calls me on my pocket tablet. I slip in the comm-link in my ear.

  After I know who it is I say, "Are you trying to start a fight or something?"

  The doe-eyed man-calf in front of me turns around shocked at my tone, thinking I was talking to him.

  I stare aggressively at him to mind is own business.

  He slowly turns around, unsure of what just happened.

  Good. Maybe man-calf will order faster, or get the hell out of line altogether.

  "No," Hayes says. "It's simply bad timing. This is a separate issue. I'm being paid handsomely to deliver a message ASAP, so it's worth a little ire."

  "You're a delivery boy?" I ask. "I seriously overestimated you."

  Hayes is quiet on the other end. I can tell by his breathing he didn't like that.

  Doe-eyed man-calf in front of me is getting more visibly agitated.

  "It's from Colvin," Hayes says. "He wants to meet in an hour. He says you'll know where."

  James Colvin is the Seattle Boss. The guy in charge of all the criminal activity in the area. The guy that polices and brutally enforces order on the criminal underworld. You don't ignore a summons from a guy like that.

  The where is the Washington State Naval Maritime Museum, the last, and only, location of our rather memorable encounter. "No," I say. I'm not going into a location where he's had time to set things up. I don't trust him enough not to try and take an image of my face or collect other biometric data. Not that it would work, but I don't want to tip my hand at this point.

  Hayes doesn't like that response either, but I don't give shit.

  I say, "I'll be at the Bistro on Twelfth in half an hour if he wants to meet." The bistro is the kind of place that requires citizen chips for service. Colvin will have one, of course, and maybe some of his upper-level goons, but it should keep a large part of the riff-raff away.

  Hayes lingers on the line for half a second before clicking off to deliver the message like a good gopher-boy.

  Damn it. This can't be good.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAMES COLVIN IS already waiting for me at the Bistro. He sits closest to the wall at a half-circle silver metal bar that's half-full of patrons. He sits where he can see the lunch crowd in front of him and the entrance to his right.

  "Can I help you?" asks an attractive blond hostess in her early twenties with red lipstick.

  "I'll just sit at the bar," I say.

  "Umm ... " she glances back at Colvin, who nods. Colvin already knows what I look like; this is our second meeting since we moved in, and the first in person. Hopefully, it goes smoother than the first meeting.

  The hostess turns back to me, and smiles. "Go right ahead."

  The Bistro has a Parisian feel to it, colorful green, yellow, and red patterned tiles on the floor, cream-colored walls with boxed trim, the very tip of which is gold-leaf, and a high ceiling covered in copper tiles. Fresh, pleasant smells of eggs, pastries and coffee fill the bistro. I longingly watch silver carafes of coffee zooming to tables attached to white-shirted servers.

  I take the empty seat next to Colvin.

  "Coffee?" he asks as I scoot my chair up to the metal bar and rest my arms on it. The coldness of the metal feels good.

  I nod, yes please. I had to bolt from the Yellow Coffee House to get over here before getting my latte due to slow morons on both sides of the register.

  He tips my white coffee cup over with a clink on the saucer and pours the gorgeous brown liquid in the cup, and then pours some into his own. Hot steam rises in wisps carrying the delicious earthy aroma. I put a small amount of cream in mine, using the opportunity to briefly swipe my forefinger into the coffee. My fingernail stays clear—it's clean.

  "Would you like anything to eat?" he asks. He diplomatically ignores my fingernail swipe and takes the first sip of his coffee as a show of good faith.

  Narrow black chalkboards on each side of the bar have the menu in artfully looping white-chalk script. It doesn't even look like the person who wrote it erased anything—I've always wondered how they do that. "No, thank you."

  He gives a hand signal to the bartender, which the three "random" men at the bar closest to us watch not-so-subtly. The bartender stays down at the other end of the bar.

  Colvin is wearing the remnants of a power suit. I say remnants because it's a power suit, a pricey Oxxford line, dark charcoal with thin white stripes, but he's wearing the suitcoat with a v-neck salmon-colored shirt that looks softer than cotton instead of the proper white buttoned shirt and tie. He's also wearing the matching pants, but his Italian shoes are an understated black that aren't shined to a screaming "Hey, look at how expensive my shoes are" look. It doesn't have all the trappings and pomp of the power suit, but exudes a calm comfortableness.

  Were he a mark, I'd be wary. The total effect is someone who is self-possessed and in control. Not impossible to pull a game on someone like that, but it takes a lot of prep and finesse to rope in a mark like that. And you need to be wearing the right clothes—not jeans and a long-sleeved blue tunic shirt that you thought you were just wearing to the local coffee house. At least I remembered my pretty, natural blue pearl necklace.

  Colvin is leaning forward over his cup of coffee with both elbows on the bar. His thick, medium-length straight dark brown hair spills down over his freshly shaven face; the rest of his hair is tied back into a loose pony tail. His cologne is a light musk with a citrus note to it. He looks over at me with matching dark brown eyes. I almost expect him to smile at me. "Your father—" he starts.

  The mention of my father sends a flutter through me.

  He continues as if he hadn't noticed, "—told me that I can trust you. That you performed a very valuable service for him recently. So valuable, in fact, that he reached out to me after you introduced yourself to let me know you were a favored daughter and to treat you accordingly." He stops here and continues to watch me, waiting for some kind of response.

  My father is the Boss of the Atlanta region—something I'm not exactly proud of and usually try to keep secret. There's no alliance per se between Bosses, but most Bosses recognize crime crosses borders and agreements are more profitable than wars.

  That "service" is what forced us to flee to the west coast. And wasn't so much a service as making sure our asses didn't end up in a morgue or in jail—though Father doesn't know that.

  I answer, "My father was a transvestite prostitute that died of a Vicodine and Viagra overdose at an all-male orgy held in a grade school auditorium. So, unless you’re clairvoyant and that 'service' was leaving used condoms on his grave, I don't know what you're talking about."

  Colvin's eyes widen, but then he chuckles to himself, staring down at his coffee. "Transvestite prostitute—I'll have to pass that along to him. His version of your predicted response, if I were to mention it, was not so ... inventive." Colvin sips his coffee.

  I politely do the same. The coffee is smooth, with a pleasant roasted, nutty taste.

  Colvin says, "He said you don't like him, or being connected to him. But that you consistently come through for him anyway."

  I say nothing. The human brain is a funny thing. Even when it's sure of something, if another human brain absolutely, vehemen
tly and repeatedly denies it, seeds of doubt are planted. It's a herd instinct thing. It's not likely to work on Colvin, but I don't feel like admitting it. You learn to trust your instincts as a reclamation specialist.

  Colvin switches gears, "Your tribute was certainly memorable."

  I smile and take another sip. You could say that. Most professionals announce their presence to a new local Boss in person with a generous tribute, a way to ingratiate themselves. We announced our presence digitally from a submarine by co-opting another crew's tribute to deliver ours, a DNA-bonded military-grade tablet. "I'm glad you liked it."

  "It's proven very useful," he says. After a brief pause, he continues in a quieter voice, "I have a situation similar to one a local Boss in Atlanta recently faced. Are you familiar with that situation?"

  He's respecting my desire to distance myself from my father, switching tack, and being diplomatic. Most Bosses are power-tripped asshats that always have to exude their dominance.

  Colvin just became ten times more dangerous in my mind.

  He knows I'm familiar with it. I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I can say no. There will likely be no immediate repercussions, but there will be long-term repercussions. I hate getting mixed up with Bosses.

  I nod to confirm that I know what he's referring to.

  Colvin continues in a low voice, "I would like you to look into it for me. Are you willing to do me a favor and look into it?"

  The word favor here is loaded, a large amorphous carrot to be nebulously determined in the future. "Not without more details," I say.

  This is not what we need right now. We need to unload that solid-state external drive, of which I'm starting to get really nervous about in connection with this requested favor.

  He barely nods to himself, and sets his coffee cup down. "Need a lift, Ms ... ?"

  Translation: let's talk in my hovercar.

  I make up a fake up name. "Sapphire Sanders."

  There's no real choice here. Either we help him, or we come up with a damn air-tight excuse to get out of it, or we move shop again as the climate won't be hospitable to us here in the long term. "That's very kind of you," I say. "I would love a lift."