“Who were you working for during our previous case, with Masters?”
“I …” Shit, it had me in a bind. “Myself. No one else. Maybe Robins. Yeah.”
Allen could see right through me. It had just wanted to know whether I would lie.
I would and I could. If not for my own safety, then definitely for Allen’s.
CHAPTER 4
A FEW DAYS AFTER MY BUSINESS at Maranzano’s, I decided to pay Jeremy a visit. Alone.
The hospital we’d dropped him at was a pricy one, but you got what you paid for in the medical system. The receptionist sent me to his room. I could see he looked much better than when we’d first met him. He squinted, as if trying to place where he had seen me before.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” He also sounded less jittery.
“I’m Elias Roche. Your mother sent me to find you a few days back.”
“Oh, you’re the one who brought me here!” His face lit up as he shuffled to give me space to sit on his bed. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did. I have no idea how to repay you. Saving my life, paying for my stay, it’s too much!”
“You can repay me by telling me what you remember from the night you got nabbed. I was hoping you could help me figure out what happened.”
He smiled. “I don’t really know what happened, I’m afraid. I was bringing food for my ma, brought it up, then I went back to grab a present for her. She’s a big fan of the old country — came here from Denmark, of all places, and met my father here — and I got her this painting from a Danish artist she loves. I went down, and next thing I knew, someone was holding me down. I remember having this terrible taste in my mouth, and then … I was here.”
“You didn’t see anyone approach you? Even from the street?”
“No, there was no one around for miles, not even cars. People don’t like Kips Bay, which is why the rent is cheap.”
I rubbed my temple. “So, you’re an accountant?”
“I’m trying to be. I don’t work much — not many businesses left around to need me — but I do volunteer my time at the local shelter.”
“Shelter for what?”
“Addicts. I try to bring them in, help them detox, get them on their feet. It’s hard keeping them from relapsing, but it’s our duty to help people, no matter what.”
I pulled out the strange tin box I’d found in his pocket and placed it in his hands. “You have any idea what this is?”
“I sure do. Junkies call it a Huffbox, the newest way to take drugs. Why put a needle in your arm when you can aerosolize the stuff and suck it down?” He chuckled a bit, but he didn’t smile. “A lot of the older junkies who come in sound like they have TB. Often, they don’t make it more than a month without numbing the pain, and even then, they die from their lungs just giving out. It’s terrible.”
“How does it work?” I asked.
“You put whatever you want to take inside, add a cartridge on the underside of the thing, and suck and click and swallow. Automatics have started using even stronger cartridges to get the stuff into the same funnel alcohol goes into, so it’s like a universal applicator.”
“Huh.” I took the Huffbox back and turned it over in my hand. “Seems someone tested it out on you against your will. You have any idea what they gave you?”
“I can barely remember the last few days. I’m sorry, Mr. Roche, I’m not too sure.”
“Figures.” I pocketed the box and got up from the bed. “You have any idea why someone would target you?”
“Maybe because I work at the shelter. I mean, I can confiscate any drugs the addicts have on them.”
“And do you?”
He clammed up for a moment and bit on his lip. “Well … I need to pay the bills somehow.”
“Mm-hmm … You take care now. Oh, and, uh …” I opened my wallet, grabbed a few bills, and threw them on the bed. “Stop peddling that shit and get yourself something to eat. Your mother would be mortified if she knew you were giving her all your food.”
He looked shocked by the generosity. I made my way out before he could thank me again. Poor bastard must have been nabbed by the Iron Hands because he volunteered at that shelter. Maybe they thought he stole product and resold it, or maybe they thought he was a narc. No doubt they’d fed him their own cocktail to bury the trail, and it seemed to have worked.
But the fact that he had no idea who took him … that was concerning. No footprints, fast as hell, weighed a ton, quiet enough that the old woman hadn’t heard or seen the kidnapping happen. Like I’d said to Allen, I knew an Automatic who could do something like this. I just didn’t want to be right.
I made my way to the 5th Precinct, intending to catch up with everyone while Allen was away. It got dark early this time of year, and it was only going to get worse. My temporary car, a black Packard, would have blended completely into the night, had the little lights on the Plate not reflected off its shiny exterior.
Walking into the precinct, I heard my name called out several times as the cops on duty spotted me. They were half-hearted greetings, given that Sundays were slow days and no one wanted to be here. Patrick Sinclair was nearly asleep at his desk, trying to figure out how to play a card game on his green-and-black desk terminal. Even half-awake, he’d had enough time to style his hair before — and during — the workday. I leaned on his desk as he jabbed at the keyboard and gave me a lazy acknowledgement.
“Paddy,” I said.
“El, good to see ya.” He leaned back, thankful for the distraction. “Busy few weeks?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I said jokingly.
“Prick. Anyway, somethin’ the matter?”
“Yeah, you listen to the radio at all?”
He gave me the side eye. “Yeah.”
“Heard about this Nightcaller shit?”
“Oh yeah! They’ve been advertising it like mad for a few weeks now. I hear that damn advert at least five times a day.”
“You know that’s about me, right?” He turned, making the same face he made whenever he had a bad hand in poker. “Don’t start,” I said.
“You think it’s authentic?”
“What do you mean?”
He put on a shit-eating grin. “You think I’m in it?”
“Pray that you’re not. I’m not exactly happy about being turned into some kind of folk hero.”
“Speaking of, how’d you manage to get a radio show?”
“Can it, Paddy.” I changed the subject. “I solved a kidnapping a few days ago. Just talked to the guy whose ass I saved. He had a strange encounter when he was visiting his mom in Kips —”
“Ugh, Kips,” he interrupted.
“And he was taken by someone. But the kicker is, there weren’t any tire tracks, no footprints, nothing to show someone strolled up and grabbed him and his car. You know any people that can float?”
“I don’t know any person or machine that can do that.” He turned back to the flickering cards on his screen. “But I’m guessin’ Allen has a hunch?”
“No, I do.”
“Oh, so you’re doin’ your job for once.”
A slap to the back of his head made him yelp in surprise. I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it close, straddling it and resting my arms on the back. “This is serious, Pat.”
“Well, excuse me for being a bit skeptical, but ain’t ya the same guy who thought your dead partner was killin’ cops in some backwater speakeasy?”
“That was paranoia. This is grounded in reality.”
“Next thing you know you’ll be seeing my dead brother around the city.”
“Paddy.” Sinclair looked away from his screen to give me the time of day. “I’ll be more direct: do you know of any machines that don’t touch the ground?”
The colour drained from his face as he processed what I said. Now we were both on the same page, and this time he knew I wasn’t chasing ghosts.
“I thought she got rid of that thing,” he said.
>
“Well, she does what she can to get ahead, no matter what. She probably had to track it down, which would have been hard in and of itself. I need you to keep an eye out for me. Just report any strange murders or kidnappings or even break-ins, anything that could confirm she’s bringing old friends back into the fold.”
“I’ll let Robins know when he’s back.”
“Back? He left the 5th? For more than a lunch break? Where the hell is he?”
“He’s headed up to the Plate for a ‘constructive safety seminar.’”
Classic FBI intimidation techniques. “All right, let him know when he gets back.” I stood up to leave.
“Oh, Roche, by the way …” Sinclair leaned back on his chair. “How’s that Edison Hotel case?”
“Why?”
“Our end has been quiet. Whoever did it is smart to stay off the radar. It’s just strange that nothing else has come up, no evidence or eyewitnesses or anything. Does she know anything?”
I hated relying on the Eye for information. “I haven’t really been in contact with her. Trying to put some distance between us because of Allen.”
“Ah.” Sinclair nodded, turning back to his terminal. “There’s the reason.”
“For what?”
“The reason that thing is back.”
I shook the words from my head and walked toward the station’s glass doors.
As I approached and looked outside, I spotted something standing across the road, under the street-light near my car. It was tall, lanky, with red eyes. I found myself hoping it was just some unhinged Red-eyed murder-bot roaming the city, and not who I thought it was spying on me. My body went cold and I kept staring, peering harder and harder to try and figure out if it was real. I traced the lines of the figure with my eyes, expecting it to lunge toward me.
A streetcar drove in front of the thing, stopped for a moment, then departed, leaving a tall mechanical body with blue eyes where the apparition had been. The machine entered the precinct and took off its coat to reveal a police uniform underneath.
“Roche, good to see you.”
“Toby,” I greeted it. Weird seeing Toby back in a police uniform with Second Prohibition still active. Even weirder because box-chested, utilitarian Grifter models were most often connected to the Mafia, not the police. Robins had never been a fan of Green-eyes; something that blindly followed orders seemed like a liability to him. There was a joke in there somewhere …
I looked back outside, wondering if whatever I’d seen was still there. Nothing. Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe it was just a tree branch and some reflections from … something.
“Robins bring you back in?” I asked Toby, still peering out.
“Yeah, funnily enough, he did. He’s recently developed a ‘fuck it’ attitude for most things, which makes the station much easier to deal with,” it said, chuckling.
“Other than the murders and the patrols and the looming threat of the Mafia,” I mentioned.
“Like the derms say, grain of salt, Roche, grain of salt.”
There was still nothing out there. I was getting paranoid.
With that, I left, making haste to get inside my temporary car. Once there, I scanned the interior for a note, a signal, any signs of tampering. Needless to say, I had the door open and half my body outside the car when I turned the engine over. When no explosion followed the key turn, I drove back home as quickly as I could.
I needed a break from the streets. I was starting to see things.
CHAPTER 5
IT WAS DECEMBER 16, a few days after my visit to the station, and my car was ready for pickup. Seeing as I was “on duty” with Allen, I had to bring the metal bastard with me when I went to get it.
We were watching a building in the Meatpacking District like hawks, and in turn, all of ’Zano’s men watched us. They were everywhere here: on street corners, on rooftops, near the entrance to every major warehouse. I’d bet half the kids in this neighbourhood were on his payroll, seeing as kids made for good spies. But after nothing happening and no unpredictable movements for a solid hour and a half, I turned the Packard over and began our drive north. I knew Allen wanted to ask why we were moving, so I quickly explained.
“I need to get my Talbot back from a friend of mine. She’s all fixed and juiced up, so I can swap out this old hunk of shit for my pride and joy.”
“She?” It didn’t understand the personification. Guess it believed I was talking about a woman.
“Yeah, the car. She. Just a term I use for the old box.”
“I understand your use of personification when referring to your vehicle, Detective. It’s your sporadic use of it that confuses me.”
“Sporadic?”
“Yes.” I waited for it to continue. “You see, I’ve noticed many people refer to inanimate objects with personal pronouns, giving them a more human feeling to express emotional attachment to them. However, I have not witnessed many people refer to Automatics or Synthians with personal pronouns. It seems humans prefer us as objects, rather than beings that can elicit emotional attachment.”
It must have been chomping at the bit to talk during our little stint watching the warehouse. “Can’t we go one day without some pseudo-philosophy?” I said. It stared at me blankly. “And about your fellow Synthian friends — I haven’t seen many around. Not many reports of machines that can eat and seem to be almost alive.”
“They must be very good at blending in,” Allen retorted. “And don’t try to evade my questions.”
“Ugh.” I rubbed my temple. “The fact you’re still referred to as ‘it’ bothers you a great deal, I presume?”
“I suppose it does bother me, though I don’t suppose it surprises me completely. However, I have heard that Automatics had much higher standing earlier in the twentieth century, with many seeking public office or even civil rights, as humans do.”
“Best thank GE’s lawyers and their case back in the early ’20s for that. Legally, Blue-eyes are considered human.”
“How did Automatics go from mindless drones to thinking machines in the first place?”
“How would I know? Ask a GE bigwig.”
Allen sighed. “Regardless, in the Prohibition era, most machines were reduced to the level of objects yet again. It doesn’t feel right.”
I kept my eyes on the road. I couldn’t look at Allen and say what I felt. I knew I shouldn’t ignore its plea for attention or its desire to belong, but what could I do? Lie and say it was just a phase? Who knew if it would ever be different — who knew if the Depression would ever end?
“That’s just how the world is.”
“But why is it this way? You never elaborate.”
“I don’t know. I’m not an analyst, I don’t know everything about social convention. The world wants Automatics to be below humans. That’s how it is. We’re afraid of what’s different.”
“But we aren’t different. If anything, we’re very similar to humans.”
“I think that’s why people are afraid.”
We headed north to the abandoned Morningside Heights area. Though most of the neighbourhoods north of 90th were devoid of permanent residents, many “entrepreneurs” had moved their businesses there, out of the public eye. One of those many shops belonged to a good friend.
We pulled up through 100th West, approaching a small abode that had used to be an apartment complex. Most of the upper floors had been left to rot; only the first floor was intact, with the section facing the street adorned with two large metal garage doors. As I approached the building, someone in the window recognized the car and pulled the chains inside to lift the leftmost door.
I brought the car inside, killed the engine, and stepped out. A mess of steel and electrical equipment covered the western wall, and a monstrous jury-rigged crane hung above us like a monolith. Against the eastern wall, which had a wooden door at the top of a small set of concrete steps, stood a man — my mechanic friend, Crate. He released the chain in his hand, and th
e gate slid down hard and hit the concrete, filling the room with the sound of vibrating metal. His dark skin and bald head contrasted against his blue-and-white outfit, which was covered in so much grease that it was hard to believe it had ever been clean.
“El! Good to see you, my man. You’ve been absent from my happy little neighbourhood. Work been getting you down?” He had a deep, jolly voice that rattled my bones.
“Something like that. You know how the Eye can be.”
“Amen to that, brother.” He shook my hand and turned to give a nod to Allen, who was standing motionless. “Who’s the new guy?”
“Allen Erzly, my new partner. Don’t give me that look.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Allen said, extending a hand.
Its hand was accepted and shaken quite vigorously. Allen looked down and saw that Crate’s arm was cut off from the elbow down; the missing limb had been replaced by the metal framework and fingers of an Automatic’s arm. Allen froze like a deer in headlights.
“Call me Crate. Good to see El is still a softie, getting another partner and all.”
“We don’t need any of that,” I said. “Can we skip the pleasantries and get my car?” I put an arm on Allen, jolting it from its thoughts as Crate laughed in response. He walked around us toward the Talbot, which was taking up the right side of the garage.
“But man, the pleasantries are what rustle you the most. Who would I be if I didn’t poke the bear now and then?” He winked at me and gave Allen a pat on the back before unlatching the hood of the Talbot and swinging it open.
I liked Crate for two reasons: he was discreet and he was good. He’d built that arm himself, after all. I made sure he was the only one who ever got to touch my car. The Talbot looked brand new. Most of the parts had been repainted and replaced, no doubt a job Crate had had to do by hand for a concept car. He turned the engine over. It sounded like all ten cylinders were pumping away without cause for concern. Yup, worth every penny.
Midnight Page 5