Progeny (The Progenitor Trilogy, Book Three) (76 page)

              ‘How’s business these days?’

              ‘Could be better,’ said the barman.  ‘This fucking security lockdown is scaring away my customers, ‘cept these guys,’ he added indicating towards the rest of the room with a nod.  ‘They basically fucking live here.’

              ‘Yeah, I had a hell of time getting here.  What the fuck is this Admiral Morgan playing at anyway?’

              ‘I dunno,’ said the barman.  ‘And you know what?  Anyone who seems to ask that question around here seems to go missing.’ His eyes narrowed and he looked Steven up and down.  ‘You a cop?  ‘Cause I got nothing to hide.’

              ‘No, no.  I’m here on business,’ said Steven, with a placatory smile.  ‘Actually, you might be able to help me.  I’m looking for Mr Molinelli.’

              ‘Yeah?  And who the fuck are you?’ said another man sitting further down the bar who had suddenly turned and stared at Steven piercingly.  He had the look of an attack dog.  Steven at first took him to be a common thug, until he saw the expensive jewellery and the designer clothes overlaying his body’s network of scars and prison tattoos.

              ‘Name’s Steve van Horne.  I’m in the import-export business, so to speak, and you are?’

              ‘I’m nobody.  What do you want?’ spat the man.

              ‘Well, I have a proposition for Mr Molinelli.  Times are a little tough around here, but maybe I can turn that to our mutual advantage.  Certain goods are difficult to acquire nowadays, I understand?  I can help out there.’

              ‘Not interested.’

              ‘Well that’s a pity.  You know, I used to have a good working relationship with Mr. Bennett when he was in charge in this city.  It was a great pity what happened to him, but I had hoped that I might be able to work with his successors.’

              The man looked thoughtful for a moment.

              ‘Well, I ain’t never heard of you, but... wait here,’ he said, jabbing a finger at Steven, before springing up from his bar stool and hurrying off into a back room.

              Steven waited, his senses alert to the other people in the room, the guns he carried a re-assuring weight against his skin.  He sipped his drink.  A few moments later the attack dog re-appeared.  Another man followed in his wake: this one was grossly overweight and walked with a fat man’s rolling gait, black hair slicked back and his thick, sweaty neck adorned with gold chains.  He sat next to Steven as the barman automatically handed him a drink and he appeared to be sizing him up.

              ‘Van Horne, huh?  I’m Vito Molinelli.  Michael here says you used to work with Bennett?’

              ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Steven, aware that Michael - evidently the attack dog had a name - was still hanging around within earshot.  ‘He and I had a nice little thing going until he got iced.  Heard the government finally caught up with him.’

              ‘I hear all sorts of things about what happened to Bennett, but I never heard of you,’ said Molinelli, pointing at him with a chubby index finger.

              ‘Really? I’m surprised.  Maybe he wanted to keep me all to himself.’

              ‘Maybe.  Ah, Bennett didn’t tell all and sundry about his business dealings,’ Molinelli shrugged.  ‘So: I hear you have some sort of proposition for me?’

              ‘Yeah.  I’m in the import-export business and I have a special line in acquiring rare or quality goods for discerning customers.  The current situation is hurting your business, am I right?’

              ‘Too fucking right it is.  With all those ships in orbit and the war?  I can’t get shit.  I’m fucking bleeding here.  No customers. No shipments. Fucking troops and cops everywhere...’

              ‘Right, right.  Except I managed to make it through all that.  See, I have a fast ship with a good crew working for me, and get this: it has a fucking stealth module fitted to the drive.’

              ‘Holy shit.  That must’ve set you back a fair piece.’

              ‘Yeah, but it pays for itself.  Fucking Navy can’t track me.  Plus I got a nice little private spaceport all of my own way out in the jungle.  Don’t have to worry about customs.  In and out, and those dumb Navy fuckers never see us.  See, I can get you goods that are hard to come by, especially now the rest of the Commonwealth is cut off from here.  Some things are getting scarce, right?  Even some normal and legal shit.  People will pay over the odds for stuff like that.  Here, take a look at this.’ Steven reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small plastic container.  He opened it and showed the contents to Molinelli.

              ‘The fuck is this?  Herbs and spices?’

              ‘This is Barrachak Cloudfrond.’

              ‘I know what it is.  I do own a coupla restaurants, you know.’

              ‘So you know that you can only get this stuff from Vreeth space, right?  This stuff has increased in price ten times since the war broke out.  It’s almost impossible to get hold of and the only sources are from stocks of the dried stuff.  But here, check it out.’

              Molinelli took the container from him and sniffed the Cloudfrond, prodding it with his thick fingers, crushing it between thumb and forefinger and smelling the results.

              ‘It’s still fresh,’ said Molinelli.

              ‘Right.  Straight from the source.  See I brought that to you as a taster.  Something nice and legal that I could carry around the streets with me, but that I could use to prove to you my capabilities.  I’m renting a room in a hotel not far from here, The Traveller’s Rest.’

              ‘Yeah, I know it.’

              ‘I got other samples back there you might be interested in, more... selected and high quality goods, so to speak.  You wanna come and have a look at what I can offer? We can talk and maybe come to some mutually beneficial arrangement.’

              Molinelli nodded thoughtfully, then made a gesture to Michael.  The fierce little man produced a scanning device of some kind which he held out towards Steven like a talisman.

              ‘Don’t fucking move,’ said Michael.

              ‘The hell is this?’ Steven replied, protesting, meanwhile preparing himself to take down both men if necessary.

              ‘Just a precaution, van Horne. It’s just that you’re a new face in here’ said Molinelli. ‘Don’t take it personal, but the cops have tried to set me up before, you know.  Michael’s just going to check you for any little surveillance devices you might have about your person.’

              Michael ran the device over Steven’s body, front and back, and then stepped back.

              ‘He’s clean, boss, but he is carrying a couple of pieces.  One under his left arm-pit, the other strapped to his right ankle.’

              ‘You came into my place armed?’ said Molinelli, obviously offended.

              ‘Just a precaution, Molinelli.  Rough neighbourhood.  Don’t take it personal,’ Steven grinned.

              ‘You got that right,’ grunted Molinelli.  ‘But don’t you come in here heavy again, okay?’

              ‘Got it.’

              ‘You come here alone?’

              ‘No, I got my two guys outside.  Well, guy and girl.  They’re my crew.  They’re just watching my back.’

              ‘They armed too?’

              ‘Yep, but they’re strictly on a “don’t shoot until I tell them to” footing.  But trust me, I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I don’t take precautions walking into a place like this unprepared.’

              Molinelli appeared to be mulling over his options.  He nodded slowly, then took a mouthful of his drink and swallowed before he answered.

              ‘Well it’s not ideal, but here’s what we’re gonna do.  I’ll take Michael here, and another one of my guys.  They’ll both be strapped, but they’ll also be on orders not to use ‘em unless I give the word.  Insurance, you understand?  You got a ride?’

              ‘My truck’s right outside.’

              ‘Good.  We’ll come with you to your hotel and meet you in the lobby, then we’ll go on up and have a little chat, real nice.’

              ‘Sounds good to me,’ Steven replied.  ‘See you outside.’  He lifted his comm. to his ear. ‘Yeah it’s me,’ he said, speaking quickly into the slender device. ‘I’m coming out.’

              Isaacs and Anna were already approaching the truck, their weapons concealed in hold-alls, as Steven walked calmly out of the front entrance of the club.  The rain had stopped, and Steven squinted at the bright sunshine now reflecting from the puddles in the street.

              ‘How did it go?’ said Anna, cautiously.

              ‘Not bad.  I convinced them, for now.  Bad news is: Molinelli won’t come alone, which isn’t entirely unexpected.  He’s cautious, and he’s bringing a couple of his goons with him, both armed I expect.  We need to be careful.  I was hoping to lean on him for the information we need, but it might be more difficult now.’

              ‘You need us to help you take them down?’ said Isaacs.

              ‘Maybe.  I hope it won’t come to that.  Shit, here they come.’

              The door swung open and Molinelli swaggered out into the sunshine, his pudgy features partially obscured behind a pair of expensive shades.  Michael padded at his side, eyes darting left and right, his t-shirt failing to conceal the tell-tale shape of a pistol tucked into the waist band of his jeans.  There was a squeal of tires and a sleek, antique limo emerged from behind the club.  Steven took it to be at least half a century old, pre-AG tech.  Its black paintwork gleamed in the sun. Molinelli probably had his lackeys clean and buff it for him regularly.  The tinted window on the driver’s side slid down to reveal another one of Molinelli’s men behind the wheel. Piggy eyes glared from a hairless head that seemed to lack a definite neck and to grow straight from his overly muscled shoulders, whilst his tree-trunk arms were a mass of tattoos.  Steven eyed him cautiously, wondering whether the man’s physique was due to time in the gym or illegal drugs and augmentation.

              ‘Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do, Stevey boy,’ said Molinelli, businesslike.  ‘You’re gonna ride with us in my car.  Your two friends can follow in your truck.  AG traffic ain’t allowed as I’m sure you’re aware, so we’re taking this antique from my collection and riding the old fashioned way.’

              ‘Fine,’ said Steven.  ‘Let’s get going, then.’

              They rode to the hotel in near silence.  Molinelli appeared to be occupied with a datapad that he poked and prodded as the car moved smoothly along the almost deserted streets, the only sound the whine of the car’s electric motors and the strange tutting sound that Molinelli made as he studied the device.  Michael, his right hand man, sat next to him, alert and watchful of everything both inside and outside the cab, whilst the driver – Steven had learnt that his name was Vic or Victor – never said a word and kept his eye on the road ahead.  Steven sat opposite Molinelli, facing backwards in the spacious rear compartment of the limo.  He could see Isaacs and Anna following them at a distance through the rear window.

              Eventually Molinelli looked up from the datapad.

              ‘Just doing a little research,’ he said.  ‘Want to know who I’m dealing with.  I didn’t find much, but you like to enjoy yourself, huh?’ he added and grinning, held up the datapad and turned it towards Steven to show a photo of Steven van Horne, independent businessman and wannabe playboy with a his arm around a scantily clad blonde woman ten years his junior who was pouting at the camera.  The photo had been staged.  It was part of a fake online profile that had been created to satisfy the curiosity of anyone who cared to investigate the background of Steven van Horne, one of several identities created for Steven to use.  ‘Yeah lots of photos here with you and some good looking broads,’ said Molinelli, apparently impressed.

              ‘Yeah well, I’m good at making what they really love: money,’ said Steven and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and grinned. 

Molinelli chuckled at the sexist comment.  ‘Yeah this line of work has its perks.  Think a guy like me could get women like that if I was some regular asshole in an office?  Forget it.  Couldn’t find out much else about you though, no business details...’

‘Like I said; I’m discreet,’ said Steven.  ‘You think I go shouting about my wares in the fucking street like some market trader?’

‘I do not, and I respect a man who can keep his mouth shut,’ Molinelli replied, apparently satisfied.

Reaching the hotel, Steven directed Vic to take the car down into the underground car park beneath the building.  As they got out of the vehicle, Isaacs and Anna appeared in their truck and drew up alongside in the next parking space.  Michael eyed them uneasily the whole time, his piercing gaze never leaving them.  Isaacs glared back.

‘Is there a problem?’ he said casually.

‘I dunno. You tell me, fly boy,’ said Michael, scornfully.  ‘You think you’re a tough guy?’

‘I can handle myself,’ Isaacs replied, meeting his stare.

‘That piece you got slung under your shoulder.  You ever use it?  See, I hear you freelance pilots are bunch of fucking faggots when you’re not safe in your little ships.  You’re nothing but a fucking chauffeur,’ Michael spat back, moving closer so his face was mere inches from Isaacs’

‘I have used it, and by the way, I’m the best fucking pilot you’ll ever meet.  Now get the fuck out of my face,’ Isaacs snarled back, unfazed.  Michael looked like he was about to say something in return when his boss intervened.

‘Hey! Easy!  We’re all friends here, right?’ said Molinelli, with a placatory tone.  ‘Michael, please.’

‘Yeah,’ said Anna.  ‘Enough of the dick-swinging contest.  You two gonna start marking your territory next?’

‘You should come by the club sometime honey, I’ll show you all about dick swinging,’ said Michael and leered.

‘So charming as well,’ Anna replied drily and shot Michael an icy grin.