Hammers and Nails

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  Roland gave Lucia a long look. It was obvious why she had chosen to phrase her plan this way. She knew how much Roland missed being a soldier. How he longed for clear objectives, evil enemies, and righteous battles he could wage without fear for his bruised conscience. His pulse quickened, and a thrill of either terror or hope ran through his body, he could not tell which.

  “Is that what I’ll be doing?” the question may have been for Lucia, it may have been rhetorical. Lucia answered anyway.

  “You’ve lived here for three decades, Roland. You’ve sat in the Smoking Wreck and drank beer with these people four nights a week for thirty goddamn years. You tell me what they are.”

  “They’re longshoremen. They’re hoods and goons. They are just folks trying to get by, Lucia. These aren’t soldiers.”

  “What were you before you joined up?”

  They had never talked about what Roland did before the Army, and suddenly that felt weird. “I was raised on a farm. I hated it. When my dad died, I tried to escape the life by going to college, but I hated college too. I dropped out and took a job as a doorman and made extra cash in cage fights, but mostly I just got by until a recruiter saw one of my fights.”

  “Sound familiar?”

  It did.

  “Yeah, I guess I was just another goon, too, huh?”

  “Ever wonder why you get on so well here? These are your people, Roland. They’ll follow you. All you have to do is be you.”

  “They will die.”

  “Some of them, yes. The rest will live in a town that belongs to them. They’ll live and work and get by without worrying that some well-dressed asshole is going to destroy their lives for another two-points’ worth of margin.”

  Roland had to agree this was a better justification than most conflicts enjoyed. Plenty of men and women had died in heroic fashion for far flimsier reasons than this.

  “What do we have for intel?” Roland shifted gears to get down to business. If he was going to go along with this, he was going to do it right. The Docksiders deserved his best, after all.

  Lucia was gracious in victory. “Precious little. Manny is neck-deep into hunting down Manson as we speak.” She cocked an eyebrow, “That boy is scary-good at intelligence work, Roland.”

  “He’d need to be. But let’s keep Mindy holding his leash.”

  “Agreed,” Lucia gave a firm nod, “But it looks like we’ll have some solid information on Manson’s whereabouts soon. The fat jerk went deep, fast.” Her face went slack, betraying confusion, “But I can’t for the life of me figure out how he pulled it all together. Wade is a nasty piece of work. I'm not underestimating him, but this is next-level planning and logistics. It's all way beyond Wade.”

  “Brokerage?” Roland offered, but he didn’t buy that either. “But yeah, this is way outside their wheelhouse, too. Somebody has it in for me, specifically. Somebody who knows enough about me to prep those mercs.”

  “Well,” Lucia blew the magenta stripe of hair away from her eyes, “when we find Manson, we’ll get our answers.”

  “True enough.” Roland did not sound satisfied with that, but he let it go for the sake of expediency.

  “Now, if you feel up to it, Billy is waiting for us to take him to see The Dwarf.”

  “Am I on the clock?” If he was acting as ‘fixer’ for this meet, he would have to follow certain conventions about impartiality. He was more worried about Lucia losing her cool and heel-kicking Rodney in the face (like she always did) than himself, but he would not mention it unless he had to.

  “Definitely. Your reputation is critical to making this work.”

  Roland stared for a moment, trying to select words that would not provoke the ire of his tiny partner. She spared him with a dramatic eye roll, “I promise not to kick him in the face this time, okay?”

  “Thank you. That will make my job much easier.” He stopped, “Where’s Billy?”

  “Waiting outside. He didn’t want to be in the room when I told you I had decided to hand Dockside over to him and that we were going to get The Dwarf to go along with it.” She shrugged and made a sour face, “Something about ‘temper tantrums’ and 'drama queens.’ You know how he can be.”

  “I’m starting to think somebody’s going to get kicked in the face today. Let me get dressed.”

  In a few minutes, Roland had donned a gray linen suit tailored to fit his proportions. It did nothing to hide his mass or width, but it colored his manufactured physique with an air of humanity. No one would mistake him for a normal person, but most who saw him would not assume he was mutant or a cyborg right off the bat.

  “Let’s go,” he mumbled, still far from thrilled with how his day was going.

  “Don’t pout, Roland,” Lucia chided, “I’ll make it up to you later.”

  “You’d better,” the big man groused, but thinking about how she might 'make it up to him’ robbed his words of any intended antipathy.

  On the street, a large ground transport awaited them. Designed to carry groups of people, the passenger area seemed more than capable of handling his weight. Roland smiled at the thought of riding like a person and not as cargo for once. He found a long bench seat at the back and settled in as best he could. Billy McGinty sat in a comfortable-looking chair along one side and Lucia sat down in another.

  “Holy shit!” Billy laughed as Roland walked by, “He went along with it?”

  “Told you he would. Now pay up.”

  Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out some hard creds, “You win this round, Lucy.”

  “You bet on whether or not I’d agree to her plan?” Roland found himself incredulous, which was silly, when he thought about it. This was exactly the sort of fun those two had been having at his expense since the day they had met. He waved off Billy’s answer and asked a more pertinent question, “It’s only nine blocks to The Hideaway, guys. Why the car?”

  “Because the President of the Big Woo Trade Association does not walk anywhere, Roland.” Lucia advised.

  “Yeah,” Billy nodded, “I’m not real popular outside of the Woo these days. Certain enterprising street hoods might get, uh, opportunistic. Especially since this is not the sort of meeting I can bring my regular bodyguards to.”

  “Which is why we are going,” Lucia added with a sly wink.

  “I see,” said Roland, “Because this is all Billy’s idea, right?”

  “Damn right it is!” Billy snapped with mock indignation. “Ol’ Rodney would never go along with a plan that you two came up with.”

  “Naturally,” Roland droned, the word dripping with sarcasm.

  “Just let me do the talking, Big Boy. Take notes. You might learn something.”

  I just might, Roland thought to himself. I’m about to watch the two biggest hustlers in all of New Boston try to con each other. Should be interesting.

  The trip to The Dwarf’s nightclub headquarters was merciful for its brevity. Riding inside civilian vehicles was always challenging for the half-ton cyborg, and even though his joints did not stiffen or get sore, there was nothing his myriad of cybernetic augmentations could do to prevent him from looking ridiculous. When the van stopped at the side street leading to The Hideaway, Roland lurched out first to make sure everybody watching the street understood that The Fixer was on the job. It was a practiced bit of theater, tailored to ensure that any nefarious individuals had the opportunity to make informed decisions about the importance and vulnerability of a potential target before they committed to actions that might get them killed. Technically, this was Roland’s version of being polite. It would be rude to allow some poor hard-working mugger to die, simply because Roland had failed to show himself early enough for the doomed fool to abandon his plans for making a quick cred or three.

  Billy followed, dressed nattily in clean dungarees, crisp white dress shirt, and a stylish-yet-plain brown jacket. Compared to the tailored perfection of a Board member, the leader of all Big Woo racketeers dressed like the common rabble. But
then again, this was his intention.

  Lucia followed after. She wore plain black slacks, fitted and supple, with a red shirt and her own stylish short jacket. She would have looked ready for any uptown business meeting except for the heavy armored gloves covering her hands and arms up to the elbow. Any disadvantage her lack of superhuman strength represented was eliminated by the incapacitating sting of her favorite weapons.

  Roland was also certain she had strapped her CZ105 flechette pistol somewhere under the jacket as well. Years of range time and the most advanced nervous system in the galaxy made her a pistoleer unmatched anywhere Roland had ever been or heard of. Other men may imagine their women in exotic lingerie, but for Roland, weapons made the best accessories. He was forced to accept that this probably said a lot of very uncomfortable things about his own shortcomings as person, but he didn’t care.

  At the door, Roland prepared himself for the usual interaction with Barney, the doorman. A gloved fist pounded on the heavy metal door and he waited for the view port to slide open. With a clack, the panel slid to the side and Roland saw the beady black eyes of Rodney’s head bouncer.

  If this was their normal interaction, Barney would now proclaim the club was full, closed, or otherwise unavailable. Roland was grouchy and in a hurry, so he skipped to the endgame. “Barney, just open up.”

  Barney, for once in his life recognizing who he was talking to, just grunted assent and worked the various locks. The door slid to the side on greased glides, and a tall, wide, and ugly man gestured them inside.

  “Hi, Tank. Uh... good afternoon Ms. Lucy. Lovely to see you.”

  “Why, thank you, Barney,” Lucia cooed. “You too. How are the kids?”

  “Still trying to borrow money,” Barney chuckled. “But otherwise doin’ good.”

  Roland looked aghast at the pair of them, “When did you guys get all chummy?”

  “Just because you have the personality of a rhinoceros, doesn’t mean I do, too,” she admonished her giant partner. “Barney and I have buried the hatchet and let bygones be bygones.”

  “Yeah,” Barney growled to Roland. “Maybe you should try being nice to people from time to time, Tank. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a—”

  The look currently stretching Roland’s face reminded Barney of all the times he or others had brushed against Roland’s bad side. Whatever path his brain had been trying to take his words down was immediately abandoned upon seeing it. His mouth clicked shut into a thin line, and he turned back to Lucia.

  “The boss is in his office.” Barney shuffled his feet and gave Lucia a pleading look, “Please don’t kick him in the face, Ms. Lucy. We all get in a ton of trouble when you do that. I don’t want you to bust my other knee, neither.” Barney still walked with a slight limp, a souvenir from his first encounter with the fiery woman.

  “I promise to behave myself, Barney. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Lucy. Me and the boys really appreciate it.”

  The trio passed through the empty bar and into the back where Rodney kept his office. All the doors were open since closing doors to Roland was like waving a red flag in front of a weaponized cyborg bull. It was cheaper to just leave the doors open than it was to replace them. When The Dwarf saw the three walking down the short hallway connecting his office to the main bar, he called to them with feigned warmth, “C’mon in, all of ye! Have a seat!”

  Rodney “The Dwarf” McDowell was a small, hirsute, and lecherous man. Barely topping five feet tall and sporting a mane of white hair that began on top of his head and flowed like white water down to a magnificent beard. The bushy whiskers raced all the way to his navel, and the whole aesthetic was exactly what one thought of when one heard the word ‘dwarf.’

  He was fond of wild suits and sported a bionic arm left over from his days growing up on a mining colony. While most people would have purchased something that could pass as human, for reasons entirely his own, Rodney had kept the large, ugly, utilitarian arm he had used in the mines as a much younger man. It whirred and clicked as he gesticulated, and the ‘fingers’ of its oversized three-fingered claw spun and snapped when he was excited. He was seated at his desk, which sat festooned with multiple terminals and view screens. The mechanical limb waved in lazy patterns as his organic hand swiped through the screens in front of him.

  Roland and his partners stepped into the windowless room. The glowering cyborg remained in the doorway to assume a vague protective posture while Lucia and Billy walked inside and took seats in front of the desk.

  “Now lass,” The Dwarf began with a tone of rebuke, “I hope ye ain’t about ta lose your temper and kick me in the face or nuthin’.” He smiled, showing two rows of gold teeth, “I ain’t got nae any credit with my orthodontist left.”

  “I promised Barney that I’d behave, Rodney. Let’s just not forget to keep things respectful, okay?”

  “A beatin’ earned is a lesson learned, as me wee old granny used ta say,” He chuckled. “I’ll mind me tone if ye’ll just keep yer boots on the floor, all in all.”

  “Fair enough, Rodney.” Lucia began her pitch, “Because we can’t afford to be fighting each other anymore.”

  “My spies are as good as anyone’s, lady.” He pointed to McGinty, “Even as good as this one’s.”

  He addressed the redhead, “A pleasure to finally meet ya, McGinty! Yer a real inspiration to a lot of folks here in Dockside. Nice to see a boy from the sceptered lands of our ancestry make good in these harsh economic times, eh?”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, McDowell. But I ain’t here to talk about whiskey and haggis if you get me. Shit is getting really fucking hot on the streets here, and the fixers here think you and I need to have a sit-down about it.”

  “So that’s why the Boss of Big Woo brought the great metal arsehole and his delightful lady to my doorstep? Are we plannin’ a little somethin’-somethin’ for Dockside, McGinty?”

  “There ain’t no bosses in The Woo,” Billy’s voice had a dangerous edge to it.

  “We want The Combine, The Brokerage, and everyone else the hell out of Dockside, Rodney,” Lucia interjected, “and Billy knows how to do that.”

  “I’ve heard of yer ‘trade associations,’ McGinty. Are they really working all that well?”

  “Individual profits are down, because more of the cash stays at street level, but we have more than made up for it with the improvements to productivity not constantly fighting each other have allowed for. It ain’t combine money, but everybody is making bank, and less of us are dying in the process. Rising tides raise all ships, and all that.”

  “Easy enough with drugs and whores, but Dockside is a fookin’ muscle game. There are a shite-ton of hitters here what don’t play so well with others, and they sure as shite don’t like making less money.”

  “That’s where the guilds come in. Hitters will be competing with other hitters in the same marketplace. The cream will rise, the shit will sink.”

  “But we lose control of the prices, Billy me boy,” the shaggy head shook, “My boys know working with me means better pay than working with other guys. What happens when some fookin’ shop steward changes the rates on ‘em?”

  Billy grinned back, “It’s not a union, Rodney. Everybody is independent. Tradesmen simply agree to follow rules. Mercs, assassins, and whores do it already. Why not enforcers, runners, chemists, and dealers?”

  “Dockside thrives on chaos, McGinty,” The Dwarf was unconvinced, “These are not folks who are going ta agree on anything. It will take a fook-ton more convincing than I’ve ever been able ta manage.” He waggled bushy white eyebrows, “and trust me, I’ve tried it.”

  “Would a common enemy help?” Roland suddenly inserted himself into the conversation.

  “Huh?” Everybody responded at once. Roland was standing with his head cocked to the side, as if listening to something very quiet or very distant.

  Roland’s voice was clipped, with an edge that brooked no arguments. "Three aerocars
just landed on the Drag. Lots of men, wearing combat boots. Setting up in the alley. We have fifteen seconds or less."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  While Roland and Lucia were preparing to defend the Hideaway, Manuel Richardson was on his own mission.

  He smiled wide into the face of an all-too-human receptionist. The thin man was not smiling back. Steel-eyed and stone-faced, the gargoyle defending the lobby sat with hands folded and face impassive. This unsmiling sentinel was pleasant enough when he spoke, but seemed reluctant to let Manny through the security checkpoint and into the building proper. Far from being dissuaded by this, Manny was encouraged. The harder one tried to keep him out of there, the more likely it was to be precisely where he needed to go. Scouting was all about filling in knowledge gaps, and everything was important. Even if he somehow failed to get past this gatekeeper, the act and style of how he got rebuffed would tell him things about what was going on inside. More than once, Manny had received all the information he needed about a facility without ever penetrating it. It was an often overlooked aspect of intelligence work. Sometimes how they kept you out of a place told you why they wanted you out of it.

  Near the geographic center of the Sprawl, the building was located on a street populated by a series of similar offices. The structure appeared otherwise uninteresting from the outside, but this was unsurprising. The lobby was beige and bland, but the presence of a human receptionist as opposed to an android was the first thing Manny noticed speaking to elements of the untoward. Humans were capable of creative thought and non-linear thinking, and thus they were more likely to be manning those facilities that may require unconventional interactions. While unremarkable to have a human handling access to a military facility, research building, or any other repository of sensitive materials and data, to pay to have a flesh and blood person handling visitors to an office building in The Sprawl was passing strange. Manny knew he was on the right track as soon as he saw the well-dressed and bored-looking man seated at the kiosk.