The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel

The Pandora Directive

Aaron Conners

The world took a bullet in the head and now Old San Francisco floats face down in a red sea sky. No one ever really explained what happened. But now the heavens above are a bloody blanket, and the air we breathe is thick with radiation.

This year we bid adieu to the ozone layer and enact a time reversal. At least we don’t have to reset our watches. The banks still open for business at nine, only now it’s 9:00pm. The Surgeon General decided that sunlight was becoming almost as hazardous as cigarette smoking and real butter. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve never kept regular hours.

My name’s Tex Murphy and I’m a PI. Somebody somewhere screwed up and sent me here about a century too late. I should be driving a 38 Packard with a running board and whitewalls. Instead, I fly a 38 Lotus speeder. At least I wear the right uniform — soft felt fedora, silk tie, rumpled overcoat, and wing tips.

It’s April 2043, forty five years since World War III came and went. New San Francisco rose from the ashes, but it was reborn without any of the style or favour of the old city. So I hang my hat at the Ritz Hotel, in a particularly run-down section of Old San Francisco. I’m one of the few non-mutants in this part of town, but that doesn’t bother me. Some of my best friends are mutants. Besides, the rent is cheap and my apartment is big enough to hold my office.

Nothing much has changed since I moved to the city 20 years ago. All I ever need is a good bottle of bourbon, a fresh pack of Luckies, a decent haircut, and one more case.

Chelsee Bando looked deep into her vodka tonic. “I don’t know… maybe Phoenix.”

I flicked my thumbnail across the match tip and winced as a kernel of phosphorus lodged under the nail, then burst into flame. “So you want to move to the desert.” I lit my cigarette and took a deep drag. “Do you think you’re ready to face the danger and excitement of central Arizona?”

Chelsee looked up at me with those frosty blue eyes. As usual, my thighs quivered. She took a slow sip of Stohli and shrugged. “I’ve got an old college friend down there. We’ve kept in touch… she says it’s nice.”

“I can imagine. Square dancin’, ten gallon hats, huntin’ armadillos… .”

Chelsee cut in, “… macho yokels with names like Tex.”

I leaned back and grinned. Chelsee smiled back, almost stubbornly. We raised our glasses and toasted, silently.

“OK, so why leave San Francisco? A city so wonderful that I choke up whenever I talk about it.”

Chelsee ran her finger tip around the rim of her glass in a way that made me quite jealous. “Is not here that’s the problem. It’s just… I feel like I’m stuck. Except, of course, for slowly sliding into another age bracket.”

“Listen, Chelsee. Age is nothing. It’s all in the attitude. Look at me. You don’t see me moaning about being 28, do you?”

She smiled despite herself and turned toward the window. “Oh, please. If you’re 28, I’m a nun.”

I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the table. “Well, like I said, it’s totally subjective. I think you’re ageing very gracefully. You don’t look a day over thirty.”

Chelsee turned back and gave me one of those looks. “I turn 30 tomorrow.”

My collar suddenly felt a bit warmer. “Did I say 30? I meant 26. I always get those two mixed up.”

Chelsee turned back toward the window. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually offended and her or if she was just trying to make me feel like an idiot. Either way, it made me want talk fast. “Look, Chelsee, the bottom line is, if you weren’t a nun, I’d chase you up to my love nest and… “

“Spare me the details, Tex.”

Chelsee glanced from the window directly to her watch. “It’s getting late — I’m going home.”

She got up and out of the booth and slipped on her coat. I tried to get her to look at me. She was even more difficult to read today than usual. As for me, if I’d had a tail, I would have been wagging it.

“Big date, eh?”

Chelsee threw her purse over her shoulder and looked down at me in a distinctly caustic manner. “Oh, yeah. Cary Grant… and a pint of Haagen Dazs. Hold me down.” She picked up her vodka tonic, drained it, then slammed it back to the table. “See you later.”

I watched her walk to the door, hoping she would pause, turn, and throw me a wink.

She didn’t. I turned back to the table and buried the live end of my Lucky in the teeming ashtray.

“What a schmuck!”

I looked over to see Rook Garner swirled around on his usual bar-stool, smugly reclining on his elbows — a wrinkly little bastard in sensible shoes. How could I have missed the psychosomatic scent of vinegar in the air? Suddenly, I felt defensive. “What?!”

Rook shook his head and turned back to his beer mug. “You’re the PI. Figure it out for yourself.”

Behind the bar, Louie showed off his big, ugly grin and idly polished a shot glass. “How are things going with Chelsee, Murphy?”

“Why? You thinking of making your move, Louie?”

“No. Just wondered how she was holding up — big Three-oh and all.”

Rook barked at me over his shoulder. “If I were your age, I’d already had a ring on that girl’s finger. You would too, if you had any sense.”

Louie chuckled and said the shot glass under the counter. “Rook seems to think you don’t know how to romance a lady.”

A snorting sound came from rocks general direction. “He doesn’t know squat!”

A gravelly voice piped up from the end of the bar. “Maybe she just doesn’t like him like that.”

A lavishly powdered hooker was curled around a cracked vinyl seat, looking to trade her soul for spirits, if she could find a taker. She took a drag off a thin, brown cigarette crammed into a cheap, plastic holder. “Love or money. Got to be one or the other. Nothing personal, but he ain’t no Adonis.” She paused to take a slug of quadruple malt. “Probably too old for her, too.”

Too old? I was stunned. Rook jumped in. “I was 32 years older than my second wife. And she was a real beauty.”

“Age don’t matter… unless you ain’t got two dimes to rub together. This fella don’t like he can support himself, not to mention the girl.”

The hooker picked up her drink and sashayed away from the bar. I pulled another lucky out of the crumpled pack. Being assaulted by a hooker — or Rook, for that matter — didn’t really bother me, but I was being stupid, chasing after a kid like Chelsee. I was speeding toward my 40th birthday like a derailed train, though a dab of white-out on my birth certificate had made that my own little secret.

I tossed back the rest of my bourbon. My bladder suddenly felt like a medicine ball. I slid out of the booth and tipped my hat to Louie and Rook. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to powder my nose. You know how it is for us older guys.”

As I left the men’s room a few minutes later, I passed a figure sitting motionless in a dark corner of the cafe. This man’s face was obscured, but I could feel his eyes on me as I walked back to my booth. When I sat down, I kept him casually in my peripheral vision. Every few seconds, his arm would lift and a tiny light would flare up, followed by a stream of smoke. Even from across the room, there was no mistaking the smell — Cubanas. Expensive, and hard to get in this part of the world. They were the best smoke a man could have — rich, full-bodied. My mouth watered ever-so-slightly.

Despite the cigar smoker’s evident taste, I don’t like people watching me. I turned to the window and looked out into the street. My mind wandered over past few months, since the incident on the Moon Child. My last case had almost been my last case. But that’s another story. Someday I’ll Find a Watson and have him start cataloguing all of my exciting adventures. Of course, it’ll be tough to keep him supplied with enough good material, not to mention a salary. Business had picked up for a while, but now I was between jobs. I spent all my money, and I was behind again on my bills. The Cubana certainly smelled good. My nose felt like it was wrapping around my face, like a flower turning toward the Sun.

“The gentleman in the corner wants to know what you’re drinking.” Glenda’s pencil was poised over her notepad. She chewed her gum furiously, sounding like someone twisting bubble-wrap.

“He wants to buy me a drink?”

She shrugged without looking at me. A sudden thought. “Uh, he isn’t, well, you know… is he?”

“Nah. but he smells like money.”

“Hmm. In that case, I’ll have bourbon.”

“Jim, Jack, rocks, water, soda, or neat?”

“No, Yes, no, no, no, yes.”

Glenda nodded, made a loud popping sound, and walked off. The stranger in the corner didn’t move. I packed another Lucky Strike and fired it up. It tasted nothing like a Cubana.

The waitress returned and slid a partially filled glass in front of me. I picked it up, swirled it round, then raised it toward the dark corner. The man motioned slightly with his hand as a fresh stream of smoke emerged from the shadows. I took a sip — first the smell, then the burning in my throat, finally the warmth in my belly. Drawing deeply on my smoke, I turned back to the window.

It was late. People passed by the bar without glancing in, each one going somewhere important. A leggy redhead strode past, with pouty lips and bouncing hair. I swivelled involuntary, tweaking my lower back and almost spilling my precious bourbon. A voice brought me back just as quickly.

“How is the bourbon?”

I looked up. The man’s face was unfamiliar, but the cigar in his hand was an odd friend. He was of indeterminate age — probably a little older than you think.

“I’m convinced that God himself invented bourbon, thank you. Care to join me?”

He nodded, placed his coat and hat carefully on the rack by the booth, then lowered himself on to the vinyl seats across from me. “I hope my cigar doesn’t bother you. It’s terrible habit.”

“I’ve always wanted to make a terrible habit of smoking Cubanas. Unfortunately, it’s an addiction I can’t afford.”

“Ah… A man who knows his tobacco. My name is Gordon Fitzpatrick. It’s a pleasure indeed to meet you, sir.” Fitzpatrick reached across the table to shake my hand. His hands were soft and unscarred — hands that had never done anything more strenuous than pick up a cup of tea.

“My name’s Murphy. Call me Tex if you like.”

I looked down at my glass. It was almost empty. “Do you often buy bourbon for complete strangers?”

“Only occasionally. Since I can’t drink, myself, I sometimes it enjoy the vicarious experience. Besides, you looked like you could use a drink.”

“People have been telling me that for years.” I drained my glass.

Fitzpatrick watched, amused, as the last few drops hit my tongue. On cue, Glenda arrived with another glass. I looked down at the glass, then up at my companion. “If I were a woman, I’d think you were trying to soften me up. What is it you want, Mr Fitzpatrick?”

With a slight smile, Fitzpatrick ground the Cubana stub into the ashtray until it quit smoking. “I like a plain speaker, Mr Murphy. Let’s be frank with each other. I’m looking for an old acquaintance of mine. A Dr Thomas Malloy. Until recently, he lived in the Ritz Hotel, not far from here. Do you know of him?”

The Ritz had a pretty high turnover, and I’d never made up point of getting to know the other tenants. It was the kind of place where people came when they didn’t want to be found. The name didn’t ring a bell, but then I’d never been good with names. “Sorry. Never heard of the guy.”

“Ah… that’s a shame. It’s quite important that I find him.” Fitzpatrick rose slowly and reached for his coat and hat. He was either a polished bluffer, or knew when to cut his losses. Either way, he smoked Cubanas. He also seemed to need help and, after sitting across from him for five minutes, I desperately wanted one of his cigars. I decided to offer my services.

“Look, Mr Fitzpatrick, I’m a licensed private investigator. I also live at the Ritz Hotel. If you’re looking for help, maybe I could find this Dr Malloy for you.”