An Ill Wind Blows

by Charlie Cottrell

  “Um, crazy guy with a freeze ray is following us. There might be a massive bounty on my head,” I replied.

  “There ‘might be?’” the one with a bun asked. “How are you not sure about that?”

  “Look, it’s been a busy couple of days,” I started. The door to the outside gave a horrendous screech and slammed open, shattering in the process and sending massive chunks of frozen metal sliding into the kitchen.

  “We can discuss all that later,” I finished hurriedly. “Anything in here I could use for a weapon?” Both chefs held up massive kitchen knives, the sort you can use to filet a carcass, chop up a tin can, dice a dozen tomatoes, or stab an overzealous assassin. I grabbed one and turned to face the Frozen Gale.

  He sauntered in, a lazy smile playing across his face and that damn cologne filling the air until it was the only smell in existence. Behind me, the chef with pink hair started to gag. I didn’t blame her.

  “Here we are, Detective Hazzard,” he drawled. “Are you ready to die?”

  “What happens if I say ‘no?’” I asked. Hey, you never know.

  “You’ll still die, you’ll just die very disappointed,” the assassin replied.

  “That’s what I figured,” I said as I ducked down behind a metal countertop. The chefs and Maya had already done the same.

  “That won’t save you!” the assassin yelled, jumping up on a counter running parallel to the one I was hiding behind. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

  “Pretty sure that’s the very definition of living,” I replied, shuffling around on my hands and knees to avoid his line of sight. “How much is the bounty on my head now, out of curiosity?”

  The Frozen Gale chuckled. “Does it really matter?” he asked.

  “Sooth my massive ego.”

  “The Ill Winds do not take a job for less than three million,” he said.

  “Damn! It wasn’t even a million last night.”

  “Someone wants you very dead, Detective Hazzard,” the Frozen Gale said.

  “They’re going to be disappointed,” I replied.

  “Time to learn your limits, detective,” the Frozen Gale said, jumping down right next to me, the gun already pointed at my face. “How does it feel, looking death in the face?” he asked.

  “Like a distraction,” I replied, a grin spreading across my features.

  The Frozen Gale cocked his head to the side like a puzzled dog, just before the chef with the hair bun crept up behind him and cut the cable from his gun to its power pack.

  The assassin never even noticed. He pulled the trigger, but instead of an icy death blast, it wheezed out a faint cloud of vapor. Confused, he looked down the barrel of the gun, and that’s when I went for his knee.

  Assassins are often highly-trained killing machines. That’s the whole point of them. But there are a few things even the best training can’t do, and one of them is convince the human leg that it can continue supporting a person’s weight after their kneecap has been jammed back into itself by someone else’s foot. The kick wasn’t professional, and it didn’t follow any known martial art aside from the forms taught by desperation on the mean streets of the city. But it had power, and you really only need a little force against the knee to turn the joint into a ruined collection of cartilage and tendons and other gooey bits of biology.

  The Frozen Gale screamed as he went down, though the scream was rather truncated when he slammed his forehead against the countertop. He finished the fall in silence, a massive bruise already blossoming across his face. I scrambled to my feet and gave the two chefs a thankful hug. “Good timing, there,” I said.

  “Well, he seemed like a bigger asshole than you,” the pink-haired one said.

  “Yeah, pretty sure he was. Can you two give us, like, ten minutes, then call the cops on this jerk?”

  “Sure,” replied the girl with the bun. “I think we’ve got some plastic wrap we can turn into makeshift rope in the walk-in.”

  “Great. I appreciate your help.” I fished out a fifty and handed it to them. “When you tell the police your story, try not to mention us, okay?”

  “No problem,” pink hair replied. “You’re ghosts, pal.”

  IX.

  Maya and I made our way out of the hotel kitchen and away from the area with all due speed. Back out on a main street, I hit up another ATM and loaded up with plenty of cash before hailing a cab to take us to Wodehouse Square.

  Maya seemed more than a little surprised by our destination. “Um, isn’t that a pretty rough part of town, sir?”

  “The roughest,” I agreed, “which is exactly why we’re going there.” My partner gave me a confused look, so I explained. “Someone powerful wants us dead, and I don’t know that we can contact Kimiko or Miss Typewell to get help. That leaves us needing to find…alternative assets for protection.”

  Maya’s eyes went wide. “You don’t mean—”

  I grinned. “Oh, but I do.”

  * * *

  The driver only agreed to drop us off after I paid him triple the usual fare, and he tore off as soon as we’d stepped out of the cab. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to hang around Wodehouse Square. It’s the most disreputable part of the most disreputable part of town, a place where nastiness, villainy, and violence have been distilled into a brew that was 100-proof and was guaranteed to knock you back on your heels. And leave you without your wallet, personal effects, and most of your teeth, on top of that.

  Maya clung to my back like a lamprey, her fingers digging into my shoulders and her eyes darting every which way every time she heard any sound. I calmly led the way to the corner of Fourth and Shirley Temple Boulevard. Shirley T. was actually just an alley, one of the darkest and most unsettling in the entire city, and it was the known stomping grounds of Vinny the Pooh.

  Vinny the Pooh is the most notorious thug in the entire metropolitan area. A lot of thugs are compared to apes: they’re brawny, big, hairy, occasionally drag their knuckles, and can only speak in single-syllable words. Henry from the night before was a perfect example: he seemed almost like he was more animal than human, but only in comparison with normal human beings.

  Vinny, on the other hand, stood apart, mostly because he was an actual, literal gorilla.

  Decades ago, some clever scientists discovered how to splice characteristics from the DNA of other animals into humans. Genetic modification, or gen-modding, became something of a fad in the ensuing years. Folks would get feathers grafted to their ears, or add the muscle of a horse to their legs, or get better eyesight from some predatory bird. Captain O’Mally, the commanding officer of Arcadia’s Fourth Precinct House, got an ill-advised gen-mod as a young street child that gave him the appearance of a walrus, tusks and all. Some Organization thugs actually did get augmented with ape arms and such.

  Vinny came at it from the opposite direction, though: he was an actual ape who’d been modified with some human DNA, augmenting his intelligence just enough that he became self-aware and qualified as a sentient being. Unfortunately, even a self-aware ape is still really just an ape, no matter how hard they worked to modify the urge to groom those around you out of the body. Vinny was created and then discarded by the scientists at a rather disreputable laboratory, but he managed to land on his proverbial feet and become something of a celebrity in the hired muscle game by being dedicated, loyal, stronger than basically anyone, and too dumb to try to ever betray you. He was a freelancer in a town where freelancers usually didn’t last too long – the Organization frowned on the competition – and he was something of a guided missile of fur and fury.

  Right now, Maya and I could use some muscle like that.

  Vinny had a known tendency toward a short temper — a parting gift from his species of origin — but he recognized certain categories of individuals: those you hit, those who pay you, and those who you mostly leave alone because they don’t need to be hit and probably don’t have enough money to pay you. Generally speaking, I fell into that third cat
egory, which made me about as much a friend of Vinny’s as anyone could be. Maya, the human version of a harmless field mouse, would also fall under the third category, even though Vinny had never met her.

  Despite the darkness of the alley, I could tell that Vinny wasn’t home. His hulking shape was pretty easily-identifiable, like a race memory of a predator lurking in the tall grass from back in our pre-farming days. Your hindbrain recognized it as the shape of something that could twist your spine into new and interesting shapes, so even though I appeared calm on the surface I was experiencing an adrenaline surge that would’ve allowed a new mother to lift a tanker truck off their infant.

  But as I said, Vinny wasn’t there. Someone else was, though. Several someones. They were all dressed alike in dark coats, ballcaps pulled low over their eyes, and guns in their hands.

  “Come with us, Detective Hazzard,” one of them said.

  “Sure, why not?” I replied. Always be polite to the guys with the guns, at least until you figure out whether or not they intend to use them on you. “Who are you fellas, by the way?”

  “The Cromhower Gang,” the one who’d spoken before said. “And you’re gonna bring us the Jewel of Hakido.”

  I turned to Maya. “Why does everyone assume I have this stupid rock?” I asked. Maya was too terrified to answer. If she was going to be an effective field agent, she was going to have to get over this whole freezing-up-every-time-someone-with-a-deadly-weapon-confronted-her thing.

  “Everyone knows you were hired by Montgomery to get it from the Boss. We want you to do that, and then give it to us.”

  The shock bracelet gave me a small jolt. It still wasn’t painful or debilitating, but I’d only been wearing it a couple of hours. Things were bound to get worse as time wore on. What would it feel like after six hours? Twelve? Twenty-four? I didn’t want to think about it. “And why would I do that? Montgomery is paying me big bucks to get it for him.”

  “Because we’ll kill you if you don’t,” the Cromhower goon replied.

  I broke out in a big grin. “Well, damn me, but you drive a hard bargain. Sure, I’ll just go grab it for you tout de suite.” We followed their leader, the rest of his men arrayed behind us, back out of the alley and into Wodehouse Square proper. None of them noticed the massive creature that loomed out of the shadows until it dropped down on their heads with a bowel-shaking roar.

  Maya and I whirled to see Vinny the Pooh, gorilla enforcer, slamming two of the Cromhower goons together like a toddler playing with dolls. Two other goons were under his feet, groaning and trying not to move much. The leader of the group leveled his pistol at Vinny and was about to take a shot when I grabbed his gun hand and bent his fingers backward. There was a series of small snaps as each finger broke in quick succession, the guy yelped and let go of the gun before falling to his knees. I reached down and grabbed the pistol as he cradled his broken digits with his off hand.

  By that point, Vinny had finished off the rest of the goons and was giving us a dark look. There was potential murder in that look. Apes are highly territorial, and the fact that these guys had just come out of his alleyway explained why they were all lying on the ground in pulpy heaps now. I had to play things carefully if I wanted to survive the encounter.

  “Hello, Vinny,” I said slowly, raising my hands and letting the pistol dangle from one finger. “I was just taking this from that guy.” I gestured back at the guy with the broken fingers. “We’re friends, Vinny. Remember? Friends.”

  Vinny rumbled deep in his throat, but his brow unfurrowed slightly. Gorillas have a lot of brow, so it took some time.

  “Frien’?” he growled.

  “Yes,” I said, slowly lowering my hands and dropping the gun at my feet. “We’re friends. I want to pay you to work for me.”

  Vinny’s brain processed slowly. You could almost see it happen, like a time lapse of glaciers forming. “Pay?” he rumbled.

  “Yes,” I said, holding out a hand palm-up to him. Vinny could fly into a rage very quickly, and might easily snap my arm off and beat me to death with it, but he would also recognize my scent and know I wasn’t a threat.

  Vinny sniffed my palm, sat there for a moment, then hooted low and happily. He recognized me. I let out a sigh of relief and felt the tension ooze out of me. “Okay, Vinny, I need protection. Can you do that?”

  Vinny hooted again. “‘S two-hunert ‘n fitty a day,” he grunted.

  “A deal at twice the price,” I muttered under my breath as I dug cash out of my pocket and peeled off five fifties to hand to the gorilla. He accepted them, sniffed them, then stuffed them into his pocket. With Vinny at our side, no one was likely to mess with us anytime soon. He was an excellent nuclear deterrent; I only hoped I wouldn’t find myself in a position where I had to use him.

  Of course, with six known assassins, the Cromhower Gang, and Montgomery all after me, the chances I’d have to let the big guy off the proverbial leash at some point was pretty damn high. But I’d burn that bridge when I came to it.

  X.

  With Vinny in tow, it was time to try to make contact with the home office and see what the hell was going on. Maya set up a secure channel, and I dialed up Miss Typewell. It occurred to me — and not for the first time — that I was the luckiest sonofabitch who ever walked the earth, having her at my side. She was easily the most competent person I knew.

  I still remember the day I hired her. I have a bit of a soft spot for women. Damsels in distress are a dime a dozen in this business, but I’ve lost count of the number of cases I’ve taken simply because of a particularly impressive heaving bosom. It’s probably not the best method for case selection, but I can’t really say no to them.

  It sorta spills over into my choice of secretaries, I guess. It’s not any sort of conscious decision, just that I’m a sucker for a sob story and a few curves in the right places. Most of those secretaries didn’t last very long, as they were better at filling out a dress than they were at filling out paperwork.

  Miss Typewell was different. She appeared on my doorstep one morning wearing the most boring, sensible clothes I’d ever seen. She was dressed like a stereotypical librarian, with wooly cardigan, sensible flats, a blouse buttoned all the way to the throat, and glasses on a chain around her neck. She had smooth, light brown skin that shone in a healthy fashion, a striking contrast to my own oily, clammy skin. She’d knocked on the door, three sharp raps, and waited patiently while I’d dragged my hungover carcass to the door and opened it a crack. “Wha’ d’you wan’?” I managed to mumble.

  “I saw your advertisement,” she replied, pulling up a vid window that contained the advertisement I’d posted on a local jobs bulletin board the day before. She’d gone through with a stylus and circled every single spelling and grammatical error in red. The cumulative effect was that the entire ad was circled.

  “You did?” I said. I was afraid I’d been blacklisted when I submitted the thing, since no one ever responded anymore.

  “Yes,” she replied, all business as she snapped the vid window shut and gently but firmly pushed her way into the office. She pulled up another vid window and swiped it across the room to float in front of me. I stared at it blearily for a moment, not recognizing the significance of what was in front of me. “It’s my résumé,” she finally said helpfully, the accent marks over the “e”s clearly audible.

  “Of course, it is,” I managed, trying to focus on the tiny font.

  “Do you have any questions for me, sir?” she asked.

  “Why would I?” I asked, confused.

  “Well, this is an interview, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Is it?” I was more confused than ever. Had I accidentally scheduled an interview when I was drunk?

  “As you can see, my abilities and experiences make me well-qualified for the position,” she continued. I nodded mutely, uncomprehendingly.

  “So, um, Miss, er, Ty—” I stammered.

  “Typewell. Ellen Typewell,” she supplie
d.

  “Of course,” I replied, finally bringing the resume into focus. “And you do type very well. A hun’erd ‘n’ fifty words per minute, huh?”

  “Indeed, sir,” she replied.

  “Any good at, uh, filing and whatever?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. My last job was as a filing clerk for the city. I single-handedly developed the new digital filing system that’s saving them millions.”

  I was impressed, even if it didn’t mean a whole lot to me. My preferred filing system was known as FAFS/UP: that is, on the First Available Flat Surface, I’d create a pile. Each pile thus created would eventually merge with all the other piles, creating the Universal Pile. It was an easy system to create, but a complete catastrophe when it came to finding anything you actually needed later. It worked best for bills, I’d found.

  “Well, Miss Typewell, you’re definitely, uh, qualified,” I said. “We’re still reviewing the many impressive candidates we’ve had apply, but I think we should make a choice soon.” I was lying, there was no one else.

  “Sir, with all due respect, you’re lying,” she said, her face a mask of no-nonsense and slight annoyance. “I know I’m the only candidate.”

  “Do you, now?” I said in a neutral tone. I fished a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it. She wrinkled her nose slightly but said nothing. “Mind if I ask why you’ve left the employ of the fine city of Arcadia? I mean, it sounds like you were a rising star there.”

  “I got bored with it,” she answered, much too quickly for that to be the truth. Even in my still-inebriated state, I could tell it was a lie.

  “Really,” I deadpanned, arching an eyebrow quizzically at her.

  “Yes. I wanted a job that would offer a little more challenge and diversity, something a little more exciting,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. She was a pretty good liar, I had to admit, but you can’t bullshit the bullshit artist.

  “Y’know,” I said conversationally, the gears in my head finally turning, the fog of memory parting to reveal an interesting point, “I seem to recall seeing an article over the newsfeed a few days ago about an Arcadia City Treasury Clerk getting in some deep shit for reporting a little…‘accounting irregularity,’ I think they called it. Seems a young woman caught her boss and a few of the other higher-ups skimming millions from Arcadia, some connection to illegal Organization gambling rings, stuff like that.”