The Automatic Detective (12 page)

"How'd you find me?"

"You stuck in a question askin' loop, Mack? The lady has ways of keepin' tabs on guys."

"Guys like me?" I asked. "Guys like Tony Ringo?" Maybe Humbolt was right. Maybe I was stuck in a loop.

"She don't bother with losers like Ringo," he said. "Guess you must've caught her eye."

I went over to the box and opened it. Inside was a dark blue suit, pinstriped. I pulled out the jacket and wasn't surprised it
was large enough to fit my shoulders. It looked expensive and obviously custom-made. I wondered how much it cost Napier to have one whipped up so quickly.

"It's a fabric of the boss's own design," said Humbolt. "Fireproof, puncture-proof, and wrinkle-resistant. Breathes like cotton, though you ain't likely to notice that. Durable stuff. You'll pop a stitch before it does. Ink ain't even dry on the patent papers yet, so the lady must like you."

I tossed the jacket onto the table. "What does she want in return?"

He shrugged. "Nothin'. She just likes givin' gifts."

"Gifts to guys like me," I said.

He nodded. "To guys like you."

I couldn't see the point in asking Humbolt any more questions so I let him leave. I laid out the suit on the couch and scanned it slowly up and down. Pinstripes weren't my style, but it was a nice garment, complete with a dark blue trench coat. The only thing missing was a hat.

There was also a card. It read:

Dear Mack,
If you're going to play detective, you should at least
look the part
.

Hugs and Kisses,
Lucia

There was something else in the box: a painting of an idyllic garden villa that had only a few hours ago hung in a levitation pod in Proton Towers. I set this aside and left the suit on the couch until Jung finally showed up.

He grunted a hello as he loped over to the refrigerator and found an apple.

"Hard day at work?" I asked, trying to slide into things gracefully.

"Usual." The gorilla lumbered over, and ran his fingers along the crease in the trousers. "Where'd you pick this up?"

"It's a gift from a friend."

"You don't have any friends, Mack." He polished the apple on his lapel. "Except me, and even I'm not always sure about that."

"It's a new development."

"Are you going to try it on?" he asked.

"Maybe." My vocalizer spit out a bit of static, my version of clearing my throat nervously. "Jung, remember this morning when you said something about friends helping each other?"

He bit into his apple while fixing his beady, black eyes on me. "Yeah, Mack. I remember."

So I asked him for a favor, and he just nodded and agreed.

"It could be dangerous. A little bit dangerous. Maybe." I sighed. "Forget it. Never mind."

"Let me get out of this monkey suit." The gorilla lumbered toward his bedroom.

"You don't have to do it. It's okay if you change your mind."

He paused at the doorway. "Forget it, Mack. No big deal."

But it was a big deal. I'd never asked for a favor like this before, and I still didn't feel right putting Jung in this position. There was some danger involved. I calculated a 3 percent chance of something going wrong with this plan, though there was only a 4 percent chance it'd pay off at all.

"You better get dressed, too," shouted Jung from the other room. "The clubs usually have a dress code."

The suit fit perfectly, but I had to borrow Jung's nimble fingers to help with the tie. I had to admit I looked damn good in it. Of course, the very notion of caring at all about aesthetics
showed I was more illogical than I wanted to admit. As for Jung, he changed into a deep purple suit that, from my limited perspective, was two degrees below tacky. He also stuck a rose in the lapel, which ended up making him look a bit like a cross between King Kong and a flashy gangster. But he was doing me a favor, so I kept my fashion sense to myself.

Empire's unofficial stance on the arts was one of tolerant indifference. In the Learned Council's ideal city, all citizens would be dedicated to productive tasks. This was a big reason why they'd created the Automated Citizens Act. Robots didn't bother with music or books or television. We did our jobs and never complained.

Biologicals had needs beyond a steady task and a place to recharge. They needed rest, relaxation, and, of course, stimulation. That was just the way it was, and the Big Brains had come to accept it. There was even one government-funded entertainment center. It was small and no one knew where it was, but the Big Brains assured us it was out there somewhere. There were plenty of private clubs, art galleries, and movie houses scattered throughout the city, and the Learned Council allowed their existence.

The only exception was found in jazz music. It was too disorderly, too wild and unpredictable. Too unscientific. While not strictly against the law, it was no secret the Learned Council discouraged its continued existence. And since biologicals were such illogical, uncooperative creatures it flourished. Rock and roll continued its spectacular rise in the rest of the world, but in Empire, jazz still reigned supreme.

Clubs were scattered all over the city, collecting in bunches in lower-class neighborhoods. Some were dark and hidden. Others were shining and obvious. The Golden Diode fell into the latter category. In fact, the entire length of Pi Street was one sparkling, grimy, noisy monument to baser biological
urges. It was the kind of place where people went to be cool, to be seen being cool, and to pretend that they didn't care if you saw them being cool.

It was early evening when Jung and I arrived at The Golden Diode and not much was going on yet. There was a doorman on duty, but he didn't seem up to his job yet and let us pass through with nary a glance. Outside, the Diode had been bright, glittering neon, but inside was another story. It was dimly lit to convince a customer of its sullen, moody atmosphere. And to hide the fact that it was a real dive. The exterior must've drained the decorating budget because there wasn't much on the other side of the door but a stage, a bunch of tables, and a bar. The place was quiet, the crowd yet to arrive this early. Probably wouldn't be much going on until after ten.

A little waif of a cigarette girl intercepted us, stepping in front of me. "Don't get many a your kind 'round here, pal."

"Cab drivers?" I asked, pretending not to understand because something about her, maybe the way she chewed her gum like it deserved to suffer, put me in a hostile mode.

"Bots," she replied with some irritation, though not noticeably more than she seemed to carry by default. She pursed her lips, blew a bubble until it popped, then sucked it all back down except for a small remnant on her cheek that she'd failed to notice. "Twenty bucks," she said.

"No, thanks," I replied. "Don't smoke." To drive the point home, I tapped my faceplate where my mouth wasn't.

She groaned. "It's twenty bucks just for walkin' through the door, smartbot. Ricky should've collected it from you, but he's a lazy goddamn prick."

"Sign out front says there's no cover before nine."

"That's for bios," she replied with more frustration and proceeded to masticate her gum harder for my sins. "Bots always gotta pay."

"Isn't that discriminatory?"

The waif smiled, and I could tell her face hurt from the effort. "We're runnin' a business here, pal. Bots come in, don't drink nothing', don't eat nothin', just stand around taking up space."

"I'll buy a drink," I offered.

"Then what? There's a two drink minimum, but don't nobody buy two drinks once the party starts. Except bots. Bots don't drink nothin', don't eat nothin', just—"

"Yeah, I got it. I got it. Twenty bucks seems kind of steep though, doesn't it?"

"If it were up to me, we wouldn't even let your kind through the door." She smiled again, and this time, looked like she meant it. "But it ain't up to me. Now twenty bucks. Or do I gotta call the cops?"

I calculated that as a bluff. Dives like this didn't call the cops. They had ways of handling their own security needs, usually involving back alley legbreakers and superheated electroprods. Though I wasn't in much danger from either, I didn't need to raise a stink. I dug out the twenty bucks and handed it to her.

"Thank you very much, sir," she said with all the warmth of a death ray. "Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen."

I stopped her. "What? No complimentary cigarettes?"

She rolled her eyes and vanished into the gloom.

"How do you want to do this?" asked Jung.

Most robots had the advantage of being factory models. They might have a modification here or there, but in the end, they looked alike except for different serial number and any distinguishing features their owners might care to add. Even the many hundred automated citizens all came from standard issue before gaining their citizenship and except for the red paint slapped on their chassis, they were fairly nondescript.

But I was one of a kind, a limited edition. The professor had created a few other prototypes, but they'd been seized and dismantled before ever being activated. There was only me. It didn't help any that I was a big bot or that some people still remembered me from the media's brief infatuation with my reformation. It was hard to stand out in a crowd in Empire, but I managed better than most. If Tony Ringo spotted me coming, he'd teleport away, and I'd be back to square one.

It would be Jung's job to watch the door, while I sat quietly in some nearby darkened corner, just out of sight. Hopefully, Ringo would make his appearance, Jung would flash me a signal, and I'd be able to sneak up and grab Ringo before he noticed. There were a lot of variables in the plan, the most obvious being that Tony Ringo would have to be an idiot to show up at a regular hangout when people were looking for him. But I had a rationality-contradicting hypothesis he couldn't stay away. It was a biological thing to do. They were creatures of habit. Like robots without the smarts.

I found a good spot by the door that might work, and Jung took a seat at the bar. He ordered a drink while he waited. It wasn't a banana daiquiri, but my rudimentary sense of humor found some enjoyment in imagining it was.

We waited.

I don't mind waiting. Waiting is simple. Waiting is easy. Waiting gets rid of all the pressure until something finally happens. I wanted Ringo to show, and I wanted it to lead to Julie and the kids, back to everything being normal and me driving a cab, and nothing interesting happening. Not because I hated this detective stuff. In some small way, I suspected it was beginning to grow on me. But this wasn't about me. This was about the Bleakers, a perfectly nice family that might need my help. Big emphasis on the
might
.

The Golden Diode filled up with customers over the next
three hours, and as the crowd grew, I began to suspect this was a waste of time. For the first time in my functioning, waiting became something vaguely discomforting. Fourteen minutes past eleven o'clock, I began calculating other courses of action. There were plenty of jazz clubs on Pi Street. Maybe I'd have been smarter to patrol them all than stake out one. Maybe I wasn't in the right neighborhood at all. Maybe Tony Ringo had blown town, and maybe I was wasting my time. It's never fun second-guessing yourself, and with an electronic brain capable of spitting out four hundred and sixteen different scenarios a minute once it gets started, it can become downright discouraging.

"Penny for your calculations, handsome."

It was Lucia Napier. I didn't move my opticals from Jung, so I didn't see her, but I recognized the voice.

"Had a feeling you'd be here." Her hand ran up and down my arm. "Love the suit. It looks good on you."

"I don't have time for this," I said coldly.

"Oh, relax. Tony never shows up before eleven-thirty."

I turned my head enough that Jung remained in the corner of my vision. Napier was wearing a shimmering, low-cut number that hugged her curves and displayed her many charms.

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" I asked.

"Slipped my mind, I guess." She smiled. "Care for a dance, handsome?"

"I don't dance."

"Oh, come on. One dance can't hurt anything." She grabbed my hand and pulled. I stayed put.

"Lady, I know this is all fun and games to you, but I'm here on business."

"Oh, fine. You should learn to lighten up. You'll function longer." She shrugged. "Business, huh? And I thought you were just a cab driver."

I caught the signal from Jung, and my opticals moved toward the door. There was Tony Ringo. I slinked cautiously toward him, hunching low and still standing taller than the rest of the crowd. If I could get close enough.

Ringo turned in my direction and saw me. In one second his squishy brain made the connection and with less than a dozen steps to reach him through the crowd, his hand was already in his jacket, getting ready to push his magic button to make him disappear.

Jung came up behind him and clocked Ringo across the back of the head. Ringo tumbled hard. A blinking metal disk fell out of his jacket, and rolled across the floor. Stunned, Ringo crawled for it, trying not to get stepped on in the confusion. He grabbed it, but before he could do anything else, my foot fell across his hand and the disk. I leaned on him. The disk and his hand shattered. There was probably a loud crunch from both, but the jazz music swallowed that whole. His yelp of pain drew some attention though.