Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 (12 page)

The city sparkled with Christmas lights, and the metropolitan air space was jammed with speeders, filled with shoppers returning from the extended-hours holiday frenzy. It was annoying. This was my least favorite time of the year. The weather was cold and clammy, and something about the yuletide season always brought out the grinch in me. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the fact that a simple Christian celebration had been grafted onto a set of pagan rituals and fertilized with steaming piles of commercialism, turning the whole event into a bastardized maelstrom of greed and questionable religious value. Or maybe it was because Santa never brought me a pony.

The bottle of bourbon tucked under my arm represented a third of my remaining liquid capital. I unlocked the door to my office and stepped into the darkness. The chilly, damp street air gave way to the warm, smoky smell of home. The green glowing numbers on my watch read 11:11 PM. It’d been one of the longest ten-hour stretches of my life, and I was exhausted…but I wasn’t going to sleep.

The white glow from the streetlights outside fell through my venetian blinds and washed across the floor, giving the room a ghostly look. I crossed to my desk, set the bottle down, and turned on the banker’s lamp. In less than a minute, I was shoeless, hatless, and coatless, with a loosened tie and the melancholy strains of Miles Davis echoing off peeling wallpaper.

A speeder flashed past my windows, headed in the direction of the new city. Five million lost souls, clustered together among piles of rubble and sleek, sterile construction. Things were different now. I wondered if things were different back home, too. Probably. Everything was going to hell.

I tore the plastic wrapper off the top of the Jack Daniel’s bottle and removed the cap. I’d made a quick stop at a liquor store on the way home and decided to buy the good stuff.

Seeing the Colonel buy the farm had made me feel even more mortal than usual. For all I knew, this might be my last night on Earth. I stuck a Lucky Strike in the corner of my mouth and poured myself half a glass of sedative. My two best friends. I picked up the tumbler and raised it in memory of my late mentor. Three shots of bourbon coursed down my throat: one for him, one for me, and one to fill the empty feeling in the pit of my gut. I took a deep drag and refilled the glass. There was a message on the vid-phone.

I pressed the playback button, then leaned back in my chair, eyes closed and feet crossed on top of my desk.

Alaynah’s face appeared on the screen. “Hello, Tex. I just wanted to call and say I had a great time today. It was lovely to see you. Give me a call. My number’s 671-3892. Bye.”

I opened my eyes and watched smoke curl around the gold and green light of the banker’s lamp. Miles stepped aside as John Coltrane’s plaintive sax played an aching eulogy. I reached over to the vid-phone and erased the message. Another sip of bourbon burned in my throat.

I turned my head and looked in the direction of a photograph hung on the wall. All I could see was the reflection on the frame, but I knew what it showed. It was me, the Colonel, and Xavier Jones…an old photo. I wondered why I’d held onto it all these years. Maybe as a reminder of more innocent times. Or maybe for the same reason I kept a picture of Sylvia on my desk - to never let me forget the biggest mistakes of my life.

I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette and thought back to the last time I’d seen the Colonel, trying to remember everything he’d said during his mysterious visit. Even through the fermented haze of that night, I knew there wasn’t much to remember. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that he’d come by for a purpose. Did he know his life was in danger? Was he looking me up as insurance? So I’d follow up on him? If that was the case, why me? He’d said that he’d heard about me, that I’d done some good work. But there had to be other people he trusted, people he worked with.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he wasn’t sure who he could trust.

Then there were the things I’d heard the Colonel say to his killer. He’d mentioned CAPRICORN, which I knew a little about, and something called the Winter Chip.

Whatever this Winter Chip was, it seemed to be the thing the killer was looking for. The Colonel had always been hard for me to read, and I wasn’t sure if he’d been bluffing or telling the truth when he’d said he didn’t know about the Winter Chip. Regardless of what all this means, the Colonel had obviously gotten himself mixed up in something big and dangerous. He was the best PI I’d ever known, and it had gotten him murdered.

And I knew I was about to get involved.

I slid another Lucky Strike out of the pack and fired it up. After another sip of bourbon, I drew in deeply on my cigarette and reached for the items I’d taken out of my overcoat pocket and laid on the desk. I picked up the blue index card with the code. BXK

+A261184. I was now almost certain that the Colonel had sent this to me. Was I supposed to know what the numbers and letters meant?

I spent the next several hours smoking one cigarette after another and attempting to solve the code. I looked through reference books, racked my brain, analyzed, and stared until my eyes started to loose focus. It was useless. I’d always believed I had a knack for codes and brainteasers, but I had to admit I was beaten at the moment.

I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for solving puzzles. I turned off the lamp on my desk and paced slowly around my office, stopping occasionally to refill my glass, pick up a smoke, or stare out the windows at the black-cold night and the crimson moon which stared back like a blood-shot eye.

I did a lot of thinking while the city slept. I thought about the Colonel. I tried to remember every detail of my dealings with the countess. Had she sent someone to follow me? It was the only explanation that made sense. And why bother to jump me, when all I was planning on doing was returning the statuette and getting paid? Throw the code into the mix, and it was like trying to assemble three jigsaw puzzles from one big pile of pieces.

My mind wandered. I thought about fate and wondered if there was any reason for why things turn out the way they do. Around 4 A.M., I decided there wasn’t. There’s no finish line, no final payoff. You just keep breathing until your body gives up, and in the meantime, it’s a matter of survival.

And groups like the Crusade for Genetic Purity didn’t make things any easier. What the hell did they know? When it came right down to it, we were all Mutants, genetically or otherwise. What did it matter if someone’s face was covered with radiation scars?

Everyone carries around as much damage as the next guy. A dame with a beautiful face and spotless DNA could be more deeply scarred, emotionally or psychologically, than the most wretched-looking Mutant. We’re all crippled in some way or another.

I thought about Louie LaMintz, the bloated Mutant saint, probably snoring loudly somewhere above his beloved Brew & Stew. I wondered if he ever stood at his window at four in the morning and thought, why? I doubted it. He just got up early every day, fired up the kitchen, and started making everyone’s life a little more enjoyable. Whether it was a story, supper, or running tabs for down-on-their-luck PIs, Louie was the very definition of a good guy. I suddenly wanted to be down there at the Brew & Stew, cozying up to the bar, drinking cold beers, eating something tasty, telling stories.

But the Brew & Stew wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours. I lit another cigarette and poured out three more fingers of bourbon.

I was back at the window overlooking the street when the first rays of sunlight knifed through the blood red sky. Feeling like a voyeur, but glad to see a familiar human being, I stared as Chelsee walked to her newsstand from the direction of the Brew & Stew.

There was no one else on the street, though I could see speeders beginning to dot the sky in the distance, over the new city. I watched as Chelsee opened bundles of newspapers and laid them in neat piles on the counter. Even from across the street, I could see faint clouds of her warm breath. It was an appealing sight.

I ran my bourbon-soaked tongue over my teeth. My breath would probably scare off a pit bull. Down at the newsstand, Chelsee finished arranging her papers and then sat on a high stool with her knees up and hands cupped around a large plastic mug, undoubtedly full of Louie’s panacean coffee.

I glanced at my watch. It was 6:54. I trudged to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and brushed my teeth. Twice. There was a vague sensation in the back of my head like an echo of a hangover. I grabbed a plastic bottle, shook out four aspirin, and took them with water straight from the tap. A little aftershave, and I was good as new.

Chelsee looked up as my clanging footsteps reverberated noisily off the rusty fire escape and ricocheted down the empty, puddle-pocked street. Damn, it was nippy. I crossed to the newsstand where she was huddled over her coffee, soaking up a java-steam facial treatment.

Chelsee Bando was a rare dame - that kind that could hold her own with anyone, as well as turn a man’s knees to jelly. Long, blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, and the kind of voice that curled your toes. Every dope in the neighborhood had the hots for Chelsee, but she seemed to think she was just one of the guys. Unfortunately, she had all those curvy parts to complicate things. On any normal day, I would’ve made polite

conversation, brought up the suggestion that we go out sometime, get shot down, then leave.

After a sleepless night, I didn’t feel up to it. To Chelsee’s amazement, I actually bought a paper, politely thanked her, and headed for Louie’s diner. Safely in the warm belly of the Brew & Stew, I proceeded to fill my veins with steaming caffeine. The diner had a goodsized breakfast crowd, and Louie was bustling around, too busy for idle chitchat. It was just as well. I wasn’t in a verbal mood.

Louie’s television, mounted in the upper right corner behind the bar, was turned on to a morning show, hosted by two wide-eyed “beautiful people.” The program seemed to be a cross between a fourth grade show-and-tell and an infomercial. I was too beat for such mindless joy and turned my attention to the sports section of my newspaper.

I finished the crossword puzzle and my ninth cup of Armageddon a little after eight o’clock. It was late enough, and I was sufficiently wired, so I got up and left the diner.

The interior of my speeder was like an icebox. Ten minutes later, I was cruising over an old part of the city, near Oakland, as rundown an area as the one I lived in. As I flew over the rubble-strewn streets and disintegrating apartment complexes, I had to wonder how much longer the Mutants would put up with the current state of affairs. The war had pretty much obliterated the middle-class. The rich, for the most part Norms, had decided to build the new city and leave the old city in ruins. The only sections they’d cleaned up were the prime ones, along the bay. The Mutants, along with destitute Norms like myself, were left with the scraps.

Melahn Tode’s residence was a nineteenth-century brownstone, the color of a used cigarette filter. Columns rose in front of the building, cracked and stained, like an old man’s fingers. I walked to the front door and saw the word Knickerbocker stenciled over cheap stained glass. Pushing the door open released the odor of rotten wood and ancient dust. The landing was unlit, and the walls and floor were a uniform shade of soil. I glanced at the row of mail slots and saw the name M. Tode listed for apartment eleven.

Three flights of stairs later, I was slightly out of breath, and the stale air wasn’t helping.

I reached number eleven and paused to collect myself before knocking. After several moments, the door opened just enough to reveal a long, shapely leg, a white terry cloth bathrobe, and a cascade of untamed blond hair. Even with only a sliver showing, Melahn Tode was certainly an eyeful. She checked me over thoroughly before saying anything.

“What do you want?”

I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my fake police ID, and held it squarely in front of her light blue eyes.

Melahn looked back at me casually. “What do you want?”

I reached into my pocket and held up the photo of her and the Colonel. I didn’t react as her hand shot out from behind the door and snatched the picture. The sudden movement had pushed the door open halfway. As she examined the photo, I couldn’t help but notice that her robe had loosened some, revealing the center third of an amazingly constructed torso. Only money could buy that kind of sculpture.

Melahn glanced up at me sharply. “Where’d you get this?”

“We found it at the Colonel’s office. He’s missing. We’re pretty sure he’s been murdered. And we’re hoping you know something that will help us in our

investigation.”

Melahn stood as still as a statue for several seconds, then turned away from the door and walked into her apartment. Since she didn’t slam the door, I took it as a cue and followed her in. She crossed the room to a small hutch and poured herself a half glass of something clear. Her hand shook as she took a long drink. It wasn’t water. Melahn turned to me, and I barely detected a throb in her voice. “What happened?”

For some reason, I hadn’t thought about what effect the news of the Colonel’s death would have on a paroled prostitute. Now, staring at Melahn, I felt stupid and uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I should make an attempt to comfort her - which I suddenly wanted to do - or stick to the facts and get through this as quickly as possible. I decided to try and make it as gentle as I could.

“He was abducted from his office. It may have had something to do with one of the cases he was working on.”

Cradling her drink in both hands, Melahn sat down on a wicker chair and stared miserably at the floor. “He said he wasn’t going to take any more cases. He said he was done with all that.” Melahn looked up at me and took another drink of stabilizing fluid.

“We were going away together…at the end of the month. He was going to retire…and we were…”

Without looking at me, Melahn sprang up and bolted from the room. I watched her leave and decided I needed to smoke. An ashtray with several cigarette butts in it sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, so I figured it would be OK.