“You got out of that one,” said Zephyr, punching my arm.
“Huh? Oh, the automobile. If you’d rather walk...”
“No, it’s okay. I was just checking the scale on this map. You’re right—it’s all the way through the financial quarter and out the other side. I say we let the robot drive us. Agreed, boss?”
Boss. I liked the sound of that.
41
SEEING AS HOW the Scrutator was state-of-the-art, I’d figured he’d have fancy wheels to match. Some new hybrid off the Mountain, with chrome fenders and perturbation brakes. Turned out the robot’s car was a vintage VW half-track in camouflage red. It was actually cool.
When the car pulled up outside the office, Zephyr stared at it with her mouth open.
“It’s got tank tracks on the back,” she said. “And legs on the front.”
“Most String City autos run on legs,” I said. “You’ve been here long enough to learn that.”
“I know but... it’s just that every time I think I’ve got the hang of this place, I see something even weirder.”
“Trust me, that feeling doesn’t ever go away.”
We ran through the rain to the half-track. A storm was raging and the forecast was for worse. Still, at least bad weather meant the lights would stay on. Following the collapse of Theo Carr’s fusion grid, Aeolus the wind god had picked up String City’s power contract and, with hurricane season imminent, it looked like the old deity was set to make a killing.
We climbed into the car. Rain pounded the canvas roof. The Scrutator engaged the gears and the four front legs engaged the asphalt. The tracks rumbled. The VW lurched forward.
“It isn’t exactly kind to the environment,” said Zephyr, peering at the black cloud chugging from the snorkel exhaust.
“Or the street,” I said. The tracks were tearing the asphalt into neat chunks. “Those ain’t breadcrumbs.”
“My apologies,” said the Scrutator. It flipped a toggle on the dash. The rumble dropped to a whisper. “I neglected to remove the parking cleats. This vehicle’s controls are somewhat rudimentary. However, it is a joy to drive.”
“A what?” I said.
“A joy to drive.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘joy’, Bronzey?” said Zephyr, grinning.
There was a pause. The Scrutator’s gears clicked and whirred. “The word presents itself as being appropriate to the situation. As to its precise meaning—I confess I am uncertain.”
“Let us know when you get it,” I said.
Zephyr had been hoping for a grand tour, the whole tourist bit. But the Scrutator took us the quickest route, which meant dark alleys one minute, bland freeways the next. The torrential rain turned the view to mush. All we saw were grey facades and flinching umbrellas, and the only clue we’d reached the Hot Hub came when the neon signs got brighter and the passers-by wore fewer clothes. As the Scrutator turned into Vaderkvarn Street, the clouds lifted and the downpour turned to drizzle.
“We’ll walk from here,” I said.
“Harry’s Holodeon is at the other end of the street,” said the Scrutator. “I calculate you will each be exposed to at least seventeen litres of rain before you...”
“That’s all right,” said Zephyr, kissing his cheek. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“You go back,” I said. “We need someone at the office. You can pick us up when we’re done.”
“I am, of course, at your service, sir,” said the Scrutator through the window as it pulled away.
“No, you’re not,” I called. “You’re on the team.”
Zephyr didn’t have a coat, so I’d picked her one off the rack in the cellar. Long blue leather, big buckles. As I’d handed it over, it struck me she’d been wearing the blue jeans and white blouse she’d had on all week.
“Is this all you’ve got?” I’d said, plucking the sleeve of the blouse.
Zephyr shrugged. “It’s all I need. Tony lets me use the laundry room whenever I want. Most evenings I spend wrapped in a towel in front of the washing machine, watching my clothes go round.”
“You should shop.”
Her mouth turned down. “I don’t like shopping.”
“That’s something for a dame to say.”
“Thanks for the coat. Is it... can it do what your coat can do?”
“You mean, like this?” I took my own coat off the peg, turned it inside-out twice until it was swanskin.
“That’s amazing. So can mine do that?”
“No, honey. It’s just a coat.”
She pouted. “When you’ve finished training me up—when I’m a real private investigator—will I get a coat like yours?”
“It isn’t a uniform.”
“But where did you get it? Who made it?”
“Long story,” I said. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.” I hunched up my collar, pulled down my fedora. The rain turned Zephyr’s hair into a black skullcap. Maybe I should have picked her out a hat too.
We set off down the street.
“You think String City’s a melting pot?” I said as we passed a line of pinball arcades. “This here’s the fondue.”
A bunch of donkey-headed winos brayed at us from the kerb. We hustled past, found our way blocked by a long queue lined up outside the opera house. Most of the folk waiting were human. Plenty weren’t.
“The Vaderkvarn,” I said. “See the neon windmill on top? One of the city’s oldest landmarks. Place used to be a strip joint, then it climbed the scale. The house band is famous in most of the known worlds. I could get tickets.”
“I prefer rock and roll,” said Zephyr.
Past the opera house we hit the adult boutiques. Time was the windows were opaqued; then the law relaxed and everything went on show. Zephyr took it in without flinching.
“You said the Hot Hub would show me what String City’s all about,” she said. We’d stopped outside an exotic lingerie store. The troll in the window was striking all kinds of poses. The only thing it proved was Chantilly lace and rhino-skin don’t mix. “Either I’m getting used to the place or...”
“Or you’re not easily shocked?”
“Maybe that’s it.”
The rain hammered hard. We ran the last fifty yards to Harry’s Holodeon, huddled together under the canopy. Zephyr pulled a folder from her inside pocket and we reviewed the case notes.
“The proposition is simple,” I said, scanning the contact report. “Harry Arriflex runs the movie house, has done all his life. This is a guy who lives and breathes the silver screen. Harry’s a straight arrow, always has been. I’d trust him with most folks’ lives.”
“Not your own?” said Zephyr.
“I never go that far. Anyway, Harry came to me last week saying a pair of municipal agents had come sniffing round his theater. The municipals showed him pirate copies of all the movies he’s been running this past six months. The tapes were rough—shaky, dark, like they’d been filmed from the back row by someone with a cheap camera. Harry wanted proof that the back row in question was his. The municipals said they didn’t need proof. Harry threw them out and came straight to me. If he doesn’t button this up, he’ll be out of business before the month’s out.”
“But he thinks the municipal agents could be right? Someone really could be ripping off these films in his cinema?”
I nodded. “He’s got his eye on Saul Flowers, the projectionist. Saul’s a creature of habit. Every afternoon he runs the projector; every night he picks a penny arcade and drops the coins he just earned down the chute. When he gets home he drinks four bottles of rum. Mornings he spends throwing up.”
“Why does Harry keep him on?”
“Harry’s a good employer. There was a time when Saul steered straight. Then his wife died and he took his hands off the wheel. My guess is he met some guys at the arcade who made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now he’s a pirate.”
“The poor man.”
“The poor man’s a crook, and Harry’s a friend of mine. It stinks, but it’s the job.”
Zephyr scrunched her nose and pulled her coat tight. “I suppose it’s like being a doctor,” she said. “You have to detach yourself. Emotionally, I mean.”
I looked down at her. “The day you do that,” I said, “is the day you hit the showers.”
Her distaste turned to puzzlement. “Really? But you always struck me as... I mean, you’re always so cold and distant.”
My gut collapsed. She’d bowled me that one from nowhere. I waited while rain dripped from the brim of my hat; I needed a minute to wind up my bat.
“I do what I do,” I replied at last. “How I do it is my business.”
She made a face like she was about to throw me a sassy retort. Instead she went over to the movie poster in the Holodeon’s lobby window.
“‘Forbidden Liaison’,” she read. “A torrid tale of passion without limits. Sounds juicy.”
“Yeah.” I went to join her. “Harry specialises in movies like that.”
“Like what? There’s no picture on the poster. How are you meant to know what it’s about, apart from the words?”
“Folk know,” I said. “The law says you can’t put still frames on the street. Says it’s not the kind of thing ordinary folk like to see. Go figure.”
“How bad can it be? After what I saw in those shop windows, I’d have thought anything goes in this town.”
“Mostly it does. But there are still taboos, just like anywhere. Although I guess you’d consider this one odd, considering what else goes on here.”
“So what’s the movie about? Is it sex?”
“No. Romance.”
Zephyr laughed. “Romance? They don’t allow romance in String City?”
“Not when it’s between two different species.”
“What did you say?” All the bull terrier went from her voice. Suddenly she sounded like someone had socked her in the gut.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Ignore me.”
I eyed her for a minute, then went on.
“Romance between one species of person and another falls under the obscenity laws. I don’t mean sex—that’s tolerated. I mean true love. In reality, it happens all the time, of course. But the municipal charter holds it’s offensive to put stories like that in a movie theater, unless you got a special license.”
“It happens all the time?”
“Sure. Take the Sunyanas: human and asansa. Perfect example.”
She shuddered. “The way that marriage ended, maybe the authorities are right. Maybe inter-species romance should be banned altogether.”
“Live and let live is what I say.” I couldn’t fathom why she was reacting so badly to this. “Zephyr—are you all right?”
“You should handle this case alone.” Her mascara was running again. “I’ll wait out here. I’ll be fine. I’ll help with the next case, I promise.”
I had a lecture ready, something about how truth was supposed to transcend prejudice. I wish I’d got to deliver it—it would have been a doozie. But I didn’t get the chance, because two blocks over from the end of Vaderkvarn Street, just past the line where the Hot Hub butts up against the financial quarter, a cataclysmic bang split the sky right down the middle. It was bigger than the explosion that had rocked String City, the same way a planet is bigger than a peach.
Everything shook, from the bedrock right up to the stratosphere. Out beyond the skin of the world, all the dimensions trembled. The effect on the city was brutal. Skyscrapers flew like javelins. The whole financial district reared up; entire boulevards cracked down the middle. That was all I saw; a split-second later a cloud of ash came boiling toward us, eating everything in its path.
Already deaf from the blast, I grabbed Zephyr and hurled us both through the lobby doors and into the foyer. We tumbled down the stairs that led to the auditorium while the rest of Harry’s Holodeon came apart around us. Our heads cracked together. Everything went black.
42
I OPENED MY eyes. Immediately they filled up with dust. I blinked it away, sat up. Shards of masonry slid off my shoulders. Harry’s Holodeon was all smashed seats and plumes of smoke. The movie screen drooped like a punctured parachute. A forest of glass spikes surrounded the remains of the projection booth; the diced-up body inside could only be Saul Flowers. Guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter any more; the poor sap was dead.
I heard distant screams, muffled. I clapped my hand against the side of my head and most of my hearing popped back.
“Come and look!” Zephyr was standing on a pile of rubble. Her coat billowed like a blue spinnaker. Strong wind to make leather float that way.
I climbed the rubble, reached her side, looked out across the city.
The entire Hot Hub district looked like a war zone. Most of the buildings were felled like trees; fires raged everywhere. Upturned cars lay heaped like drifts of steel leaves. Hundreds of people wandered bleeding and moaning. Hundreds more weren’t wandering anywhere.
Beyond the Hot Hub, almost nothing was left. The financial quarter was razed, a wasteland. All the big banks were flattened, tall concrete towers knocked down like ninepins. They lay in a radial pattern, centered on the biggest crater I ever saw.
“That must be where it went off,” said Zephyr. “You know this city like the back of your hand. What was there that anyone would want to blow up?”
I shook my head. Not because I didn’t know. I knew only too well. I shook my head because I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s the same place we were yesterday,” I said. “Right after that business at the wharf.”
“You mean that place with the funny name? What was it? The Birdcage?”
“Birdhouse. Strongest vault in all String City. Looks like someone finally decided to crack it.”
“But why? You still haven’t told me what they keep in there that’s so special.”
My ears cleared further. Klaxons were screaming all over town: emergency services converging on ground zero.
“Let’s go see,” I said.
43
BY THE TIME we got to the Street of Plenty, the cops had everything fenced off. Time was I knew how to deal with cops. Not any more.
“Are these really the police?” whispered Zephyr. “Tony Marscapone told me they were all zombies. This lot looks more like they’re off to a carnival.”
A riot van had pulled up, spilling a squad of half-naked people decked with flowers and grass and sporting straw hats. Most were human, though a couple looked like ambulatory snakes. Several carried brightly colored bullwhips.
“The zombies have moved out,” I said. “These guys are the radaloa. It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.” Zephyr squeezed my arm. “I’m trying to understand this city, I really am. I need to understand it, or I’m going to go crazy.”
I scanned the ranks of the cops, looking for a face I knew. Unless I saw it, we were going nowhere.
“Okay, here’s the short version. Years ago, the cops weren’t radaloa or zombies—they were just regular folk like you and me. But things went sour. For some reason a culture of violence grew up in the force. It started with cops beating perps for no good reason. That’s bad, though you could say nothing new. Then it escalated. Racial profiling, species profiling, an unjustified armed response killing once a month, then once a week, then every day. Finally, this one cop shot a guy just for parking in the wrong zone. Blew his face off, then shot his wife in the passenger seat and his kids in the back. There was a riot. Citizens took up arms. A mob torched the precinct house, melted all the cops who were holed up inside. The riot got worse. Times were bad already; I guess folk were just looking for someone to blame.”
“A mass depression?”
“I guess. Anyhow, things got so bad the cops were practically wiped out. The municipals got desperate and fixed up this deal with the Obeah brothers.”
“Obeah? Isn’t that like voodo
o?”
“Exactly like it. The Obeah brothers were small-time hoodlums who were big on folk magic. They raised up a whole new police force of zombies from the graveyards behind the Bayou. It worked out well. Zombies are hard to kill and relentless when it comes to pursuing the perps.”
“What did these Obeah brothers get out of the deal?”
“What do you think?”
“A fat check?”
“The fattest. So they say.”
Zephyr nodded. “So where are all the zombies now?”
“They were taken out last year by the radaloa.”
“And what exactly are they?”
“Radaloa. Voodoo spirits.”
“I thought that’s what zombies were.”
“No. Zombies are just something the Obeah boys thought up to make a fast buck. The radaloa are the true guardians of voodoo lore. They’re big on morality and justice. They like to do the right thing. Also, they have this thing about straw hats.”
“So, what, they just took over?”
“More or less. The radaloa rewrote the magic that kept the zombies... well, ‘alive’ isn’t the word. But you get what I mean.”
“So what happened to the zombies?”
“Apart from one, they all fell apart. Literally. Took weeks to clear the gutters. Caused one hell of stink.”
A shadow fell over us. I turned to see a neat midriff cinched tight by uniform blue. Six feet above the midriff, framed by wide tattered wings, was the face I’d been looking for.
“Deliciosa,” I said. “Glad to see you again.”
“It’s been a while,” the giant cop replied.
“Who’s this?” said Zephyr. Given it was the first time she’d ever been in the presence of a twelve foot zombie angel, she was holding it together pretty well.
“An old friend of mine,” I said. “I met her when she fell from heaven. After she died, she joined the force. It happens.”
Deliciosa knelt so as to bring our faces together. A gust of wind fluttered her wings. She smiled, giving us a glimpse all the way through her head to the back of her skull.
String City Page 13