Baker conducted me back to his office, got me some water, and insisted on giving me the uTiliPod as his gift. He escorted me to the door and promised to get in touch very soon. I had no doubt the uTiliPod would start buzzing before I got home.
There was a concept. Home. I didn’t have one. I needed one. Several, in fact. I might not have been tracking as well as I’d like, but I had no desire to be pinned down in one place. I had a list of friendly sites from the Church, but I wanted to scout things out for myself. I quickly found the nearest CRAWL station, descended into the bowels of the earth and started riding.
Capital City may have changed a lot, but the CRAWL hadn’t. Same crowded cars, same graffiti. Murdochs replaced the old advertising cards. Maps remained the same, with a few new stops, a few lost stops. Route colors hadn’t changed, making it easier for me to navigate. Green up, red down, other colors spider-webbing into weird corners of the city.
I rode for a long while, transferring often. The crowds came and went, giving me a feel for populations above. Devil’s Dump and Tox Town were full of boat people and other refugees. Blue collar types and middle management lived on the lower East Side and around the Docks. The Village was still artsy, Emerald Heights had nothing but domestics. Less so the Gold Coast since residents there still had to work. West End was full of students and more working class folks. North End and Colonial Shores were older money and punked out kids coming home to use the ‘rents as ATMs.
It was all familiar enough to let me pretend I was at ease. I needed a crash-pad and wanted one fast. That sent me back to Devil’s Dump. You could sink into obscurity there–the place would gladly swallow you whole. Oil slicked puddles in rainbow hues. The whole place smelled of fungus and boiled vomit. People stared sightlessly at the milling crowds from windows thrown open against stifling heat. They’d come to Capital City to live The Dream and now just hoped they’d wake up from the nightmare.
Definitely my demographic.
The Bluebelle Residential Hotel wasn’t on the Church’s list, and for a bunch of good reasons. The place had nothing blue about it save the mood of the residents. Most of the lobby’s light bulbs were burned out, and that was in keeping with the grey people slumped on sagging furniture.
The clerk sat behind a chicken wire cage. His eyes were the same sepia as his nicotine-stained fingers. “Help you?”
“Need a place.”
“A real place, or something for a secret identity?”
“Huh?” Damn, this is the worst jetlag ever.
“Supposed to be hush-hush, I know.” He grinned at me, his teeth all colors and shapes not found in nature. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, pal, we do this all the time. I got real rooms, and I got your lairs. Lairs are easy. You bring me a box of gear, I dummy up a room. Cops come in, take forensic evidence that proves you live there, they don’t look no further, okay? That’s two hundred a month, in advance.”
“Got it.”
He gave me the once over. “You need fake ID to go with that?”
“Sure.”
He lowered his voice, took a drag on a raggedy, hand-rolled cigarette. “My brother-in-law works down to the CCRC. He’ll do you something nice.” He pointed to the clock above his cage. “Look there.”
I did, unable to help myself.
“I’ll pull stills from that. Nice dopey look. It’ll fool the cops.”
“How much?”
“That’s a grand. Hey, it’s worth it. He puts a hold on the information search which tips me to set up the dummy room. You don’t have to worry about nothing.”
“Okay. I still need a room.”
“Four Reagans a week, first and last now. No fighting in the room, no testing out your gear or nothing. The closets all have a secret compartment for your uniform and kit. For an extra Reagan a month, the cops forget how to find the switch.”
“Okay. How long do I have to get you the money?”
“An hour.”
“Discount for cash?”
The clerk flashed that smile again. “Untraceable. Nice. Give you some free advice. Pop the sim-chip out of that uTiliPod. They can track you.”
“You know someone who can get me one that can’t be tracked?”
“Maybe I know someone who can hack the data to make you hard to track.”
“Done. An hour, then.”
“Done. I’m Bennie.”
“Smith.”
“Not when your new ID comes in. You like Murphy. Rick Murphy?”
“Good as any name, I guess.”
“The maid’ll have your room made up in an hour, Mr. Murphy.” Bennie’s laugh suggested the maid would stay for another Reagan.
I headed back out to the street. I couldn’t trust Bennie further than I could throw him, but I’d be safe as long as he thought I was a cash cow to be milked. Keep a low profile, pay my bills, get sleep and information, and I’d be good. I’d get another place fast and would forget Bennie even existed.
I walked back down the street and headed into the corner market. In the back I thumbed enough Reagans off a stack to cover what I owed Bennie, then added another. I grabbed a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, some jam and looked for peanut butter. No particular reason excepting I hadn’t had it in a long time.
A very long time. Twenty years.
Okay, maybe it was comfort food. Didn’t matter. I’d hit the wall somewhere down in the CRAWL. I had enough brain juice left to stalk and kill a PB&J sandwich, but that was about it.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yeah. I can’t find the peanut butter.”
The young man–East Indian by coloration, but totally domestic by voice–held his hands up. “Please, sir, not to be so loud.”
I frowned. “Is something wrong?”
He glanced left and right, then made his way to me through the crowded store. His voice picked up in volume. “You know, sir, it is illegal to sell or possess peanut butter.”
“Really, since when?”
My surprise clearly shocked him. “For years, sir. Many years.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who said you could get peanut butter here?”
I took a chance. “Bennie.”
He rolled his eyes.
I shrugged.
He waved me over to the cleaning supplies and handed me a jar of Brookfield Creamy Silver Polish. “I believe this is what you want, sir.”
“Thank you.” I lowered my voice. “I’ve been away. Peanut butter is seriously illegal?”
“Here, yes, sir. Capital City is progressive and interested in protecting the citizens. Peanut allergies, they kill children.”
“Huh.”
“Let me help you with those.” The clerk took my things and carried them to the counter. I plucked some painkillers from a shelf and tossed them into the mix. I glanced at the store’s business license. Randy Singh, pictured right there, had been through level three hostage training.
Once again, I wasn’t tracking on that, but this time it wasn’t the jetlag. Another picture distracted me. Right there beside the license, all nice in a frame, was a black and white glossy showing a smiling Randy side by side with the young man from outside the bank. Same K-in-C logo, same smile.
I pointed. “Who’s that with you?”
Randy smiled brilliantly. “Oh, sir, he is an up-and-coming hero. One of his first adventures was here, just outside my store. That is Kid Coyote. “
“Kid Coyote?” Second time I’d heard it, and it still didn’t sound quite right.
“Oh, yes, sir.” From beneath the counter Randy produced a blue sheet of paper. The type was too small to read at range, but the format was unmistakable. Tip sheet.
“He is doing very well, sir, and will do better. He fought against the Twisters today, at the bank. He will rise in the rankings because of it.”
“I’m sure.”
“You can do worse than to have him among your Superfriends, sir, trust me.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” That was the reply he
wanted, so he smiled. I didn’t understand a bit of it. I mean, this was Capital City. The words were English, but they just didn’t make sense.
I paid him and stuffed a Shrub from the change into Angelina Fund for Orphans box. He sacked my stuff and even jammed a copy of the tip sheet in with my groceries. “Have a lovely day, sir.”
“Thanks, Randy.”
Returning to the Bluebell, I paid Bennie off and walked up to the fourth floor, rear. I could have used the elevator, but I figured that would cost me more.
Screw that. The elevator was an old–open cage design. I just didn’t want to be in a cage anymore.
Three lights in the room. One worked. That was okay. I didn’t really want to see what was lurking in the corners. Besides, the Murdock pumped out a fair amount of light.
I made a sandwich–half surprised I remembered how. I had to dig down into the silver polish to find the smaller jar of peanut butter. Didn’t have a knife, so I smeared it on with my fingers and got to lick them off. That took me back, way back, to childhood and some good memories. One of the few.
I stripped and climbed into bed. My eyes felt like sandpaper coated the inside of my eyelids. I desperately wanted to sleep, but that’s the way of things. It wasn’t coming no matter how much I wanted it. Too many weird things going on, not the least of which was finding out I had a daughter.
A kid. Well, not a kid anymore. To her, I was a sperm donor. What was she to me? Potential kidney donor? There’s a non-starter. Suddenly whole new smothering layers of life descended.
Finding out I had a daughter was almost normal compared to everything else. Peanut butter being illegal, that almost made sense, too. Two decades previous there’s been plenty of laws being passed to protect people from themselves. The pendulum would swing back. Maybe it had, and was on the swing out again.
The bank knowing it was going to be hit, that simply made no sense. I used to love it when I learned about a caper in advance. I’d made a career out of ambushing baddies. When bullets don’t bounce off, or you can’t lift tectonic plates, being able to surprise your enemies counts for a lot. The bank knew the Twisters were coming and they could have surprised the whole lot of them.
And something Vixen had said was curious. She’d “bid on the interior.” What did that mean? She’d known in advance what was going to happen, that much was obvious. She’d been more than capable of handling the Twisters inside the bank. But bid? How? Where? With what?
Then there was Randy with his tip sheet and Bennie.
And Kid Coyote.
None of it made sense.
I needed sleep badly. I tossed my jacket over the Murdoch. I started breathing slowly and forced my mind blank. I’d developed that skill as protection against the mind-reapers, but it worked just as well here.
It let me get to sleep and, just this once, kept dreams away.
I slept for a long time. Long enough for the bread to get stale. Long enough for me not to care. I was still pretty muzzy as I wolfed down a couple sandwiches, then dressed. I didn’t even know what time it was when I hit the lobby, but Bennie was there and handed me a packet with my ID.
I thanked him and made like I was going to be back soon. I didn’t know if I’d ever return–and part of me knew it would be a mistake to ever come back.
Lots of sleep and no dreams hadn’t brought the world into any greater focus. I needed to understand, which meant I needed a friend. I needed someone I could trust. Problem was, I didn’t have anyone.
I had to take a chance.
I hit the CRAWL. Green Line, Emerald Heights. Cab took me to the Excelsior. Good thing about luxury hotels is that they’re used to eccentricity. You can look like a street bum–as I certainly did–but they’d treat you like the CEO of Baghdad Oil until you were proven penniless.
I tipped the doorman, then checked in. A wad of cash got me a room, a visit from a tailor in the lobby haberdashery and, three hours later, two suits, five shirts, four ties, underwear, socks, shoes and luggage to carry it all. The Excelsior was happy to give me a complimentary toiletries kit and the staff was very understanding about how my bags had been lost by the airlines.
The concierge became my special friend when I handed him two Reagans and told him I needed to see Selene Kole. “Very good, sir. I’ll arrange it for an hour from now. Shall I call a car?”
“Please.”
I wore the black wool suit, blue shirt, university tie. I don’t know which university, didn’t care. Others would make assumptions and the stories they told themselves would insulate me. I needed the insulation. I wasn’t understanding much, and prospects on that front weren’t getting better.
The driver brought me to Selene’s gallery. Doorman had instructions to let me into the building. I passed on the elevator. Three flights up, the gallery occupied the entire floor. Tasteful and elegant, but minimalist. Paintings hung from the ceiling on wires. Pinpoint spots illuminated statues. All Old Masters or a few promising newcomers. I assumed the latter anyway. She’d always had exquisite taste.
Amid the new stuff I recognized one signature. Scarlet Archer. A hero doing art. Celebrity cachet, I guess. It wasn’t bad. Strong and bold, a bit over the top. Fitting.
Selene emerged from the shadows, putting the art to shame. Tall and slender like her daughter, moving with fluid, regal confidence, she stalked me. Strong features–but not cruel or edged–in a beautiful face untouched by time. Red-gold hair splashed over her shoulders and fire filled those blue eyes.
Her gaze had a razored quality. “Should I say hello, or are you here for a belated good-bye?”
I’d worked out what I was going to say. Face to face it all evaporated. Anger I expected. The degree of hurt, though, that I didn’t.
“She told you.”
“She’s a good girl.” Selene hugged her stomach. “I didn’t want to believe her. Then I saw the report. The damage done with the rod. Had to be you.”
I shrugged. “Old habits.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you go?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Where?”
“I had to get some milk.”
“I had milk.”
“Two-percent. Yak milk.”
“Fine.” She held a hand up. “Why the hell are you here?”
“I could use a friend.”
“Go buy yourself a puppy.”
I looked down at my shoes. “I need someone I can trust.”
“You’d trust me, but you can’t tell me why you left? “
“It’s complicated.”
“So’s life.” A chill entered her voice. “My life, to be specific. I don’t need you to make it more so.”
“Selene…”
“No. You walked away twenty years ago. This time I do.” She started to turn her back to me, hesitated. Her voice quiet. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Very.” Somehow the word squeaked out past the lump in my throat.
The fire diminished in her eyes. Might have been the glimmering of a tear. “You want a friend? 5237 West 44th. Don’t tell him I sent you.”
“Selene…”
“No. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Darken my doorway again and, search as they might, they’ll never find all the pieces.”
Chapter Five
I left. The doorman was cordial, so she’d not called down. That wouldn’t have been like her anyway–not the her I’d known. On reflection, it surprised me that I’d not been pitched through window. That sort of fury I could understand.
But was that pity in her voice?
That hurt.
I started walking on automatic pilot.
I couldn’t blame her for being angry. I’d disappeared without a word. She had to think it was a deliberate choice. By refusing to tell her where I’d gone, I reinforced that idea.
Tossing me through the window would have been too quick.
I still remembered that last night we’d shared. I’
d told her I had to go away, but that I’d be back. She understood because that’s what we did. And she knew I’d be back because that was how things worked.
And yet they hadn’t.
I’d replayed the night many times. The memory fueled my determination to return. It became the only pleasant memory I had. I clung to it. It kept me alive sometimes. I let myself believe she might be waiting, a candle burning in the window of a snow-covered cottage like in some sappy Kincaid painting. We’d laughed about those pictures and how popular they were. She hated them and had turned down an offer of over a million to steal an original.
Had she known she was pregnant? I’d not seen it on her face nor heard it in her voice. So, maybe that night? A month later, I’m not back. Two, four months, the full nine and no word. Joy at having a baby, fear, anger and despair at my absence?
Yeah, I should have been lying in the street on a bed of broken glass—with her laughing as I bled out.
I let the city distract me. Twenty years had changed it a lot, but nostalgia had reestablished things I remembered. Parts looked like a cultural museum, with actors playing vintage characters–a disco version of Colonial Williamsburg. A scene would look incredibly familiar, then some sleek modern sports car would slither into sight and ruin it.
Weirdest of all was what they called Neo-retro. I dimly remembered there’d been something called the Society for Creative Anachronism, where folks dressed up and played at a Middle Ages that never really existed. They’d whack each other with sticks, wear armor and hold thirteenth century jamborees. Neo-retro flipped that. People looked back at the future promised in the 40s and 50s, then adopted those fashions and that lifestyle. Technology had long since made portable communications devices tiny, but these people wore bulky wrist-radios straight out of the funnies. Fashions were Jedi, Trek or Jetsonian. I gawked. No one else did.
I wandered into Argus Square. Graviton Drive split it, dividing the city in half. No surprise he had a street named after him. I wondered if, after sundown, the signs flipped and it became Nighthaunt Road.
Argus Square had always possessed lights and glitz, but now thousands of Murdochs flashed countless messages. Grouped into Jumbotrons, they advertised soap, encouraged good citizenship and told people how they, too, could be chic.
In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition Page 3
