Dark Angel Before the Dawn da-1

by Max Allan Collins

  He harrumphed, but grinned. “Ain't it the truth. Don't know what we'd do without you 'round here, girl.”

  Max felt a twinge of guilt.

  Gabriel was looking down at Niner, a sixteen-year-old newbie girl who'd been with the Clan for about a month.

  “Get your scrawny ass outa the sack,” Gabriel growled. “There's work to be done in the real world.”

  Continuing on toward the looming screen, Max thought about Niner. Nice kid; reminded her a little of Lucy. Max hoped that once she was gone, maybe Fresca and Niner could hook up. Might be good for both of them.

  Max took a doorway to the left of the screen, into an area where a single guard, Tippett, blocked the hallway that led to Moody's quarters. Six-four, maybe 240 pounds of tattoos and piercings, Tippett had been a linebacker back in the pre-Pulse days. Now, nearly fifty, he still had a black belt in karate and was the only person in the Clan who could hold his own with Max. When they'd sparred once, he'd lasted eight seconds, easily the record for a match with her. Only now that Max knew the man's moves, he'd go down in five.

  “Hey,” Max said.

  Tippett smiled, showing a thin line of tobacco-browned teeth. Big and pale with an incongruous Afro, he scared the shit out of everybody… except Max and Moody. Even Gabriel gave Tippett more than the average amount of space.

  “Cutie pie,” he said. “Wanna go a few rounds?”

  “No. You?”

  “Hell no. You must wanna see the man.”

  “I need to see the man.”

  “Girl whips my ass don't have to ask me twice.” The guard stepped aside.

  The hallway had an incense odor, always pleasant to Max after the fetid sweat smell of the auditorium. Moody's office was the second door on the left of the pale-blue cracked plaster walls, an unmarked one just after another labeled MOODY— OFFICE. The latter led into a tiny empty room; but the important part of that “OFFICE” door was the four ounces of C4 wired to it.

  She knocked on the second door, said firmly, “Max!”

  The door replied with a muffled, “Come!”

  She found Moody seated behind his desk, on his cell phone; he waved for her to enter and take a chair across from him, which she did.

  The wall to her left, the one that abutted the booby trap room, was loaded floor to ceiling with sandbags to protect Moody's office should the trap be sprung. The desk was an old metal one accompanied by three unmatching metal-frame chairs, one for Moody and two on the other side. The wall to the right had a doorway carved into it, and a curtain of purple beads separated Moody's private quarters from the office. A few of the ancient movie posters— Sean Connery in

  Goldfinger,

  Clint Eastwood in

  Dirty Harry

  (both meaningless to Max)— salvaged from somewhere in the theater, were tacked here and there.

  “Don't insult me,” he snapped into the phone, but his face revealed calm at odds with his tone. He glanced at Max, rolled his eyes, made a mouth with his fingers and thumb, and opened it and closed it rapidly:

  blah, blah, blah.

  Perhaps fifteen seconds later, Moody told the phone, “I know it's a bloody depression, but this is a diamond bigger than that one good eyeball of yours, you ignorant, cycloptic son of a bitch.” He hit the END button. “That's what I've always hated about these damn cells,” he said, his voice as blasé as if he were ordering tea, “you can't slam a receiver into a hook, and put a nice period on a sentence.”

  Max's head was cocked. “Was that?… ”

  “That was someone who, if I've done my job correctly, will be calling right back.” Five seconds later the cell phone rang and Moody smiled. “Got him.”

  Max had watched Moody negotiate before and knew he usually got what he wanted. The man had charm and cajones and a tactical sense second to none.

  “Yes,” Moody said into the phone.

  He listened for a few seconds.

  “Well, that may indeed be true about my mother,” Moody said, “but then we'll never know, will we, since she passed away some years ago… but one thing is certain: my price is a

  fair

  price.”

  He listened again, tossing a twinkling-eyed smile at his protégée.

  “Splendid,” he said finally. “Where and when?” Moody jotted something on a pad. “A pleasure, as always. I like nothing more than a smooth transaction.” He hit END again.

  Max's eyebrows went up. “How much is fair?”

  That white smile of his could have lighted up a much larger room than this. “Don't concern yourself with details, Maxine. Suffice to say the Clan can move somewhere where we don't have to worry about the ceiling falling in on us… though it

  will

  be hard to leave here. However shabby, it has come to be home, after all.”

  That she understood.

  “My dear… you're not smiling. Is something wrong? Is the notion of leaving this palace a sad one to you?”

  Suddenly, Max seemed unable to speak. All the way back from the restaurant she had rehearsed the speech, and now came time to let it out, and she couldn't find a damn word.

  “Do you believe you've earned a bigger share? Perhaps you're contemplating heading up your own subclan?”

  Max took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, just as she had in Manticore training. This felt a lot like defusing a bomb, though she would much rather be doing that. Centering herself, she started again. “Moody, I have to take off.”

  He rocked back in his chair, tented his fingers, smiled gently. “For where, my dear, and for how long?”

  Looking at the frayed carpeting on the floor, Max said, “I think for good.”

  Moody's smile disappeared. “Please don't tease me, Maxine. Things are just about to turn around for us. You can be a queen here.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “I'm sorry. I'm grateful to you— you've taught me so much, but… I just never wanted to be a queen. I only wanted to be… ”

  “What?” he asked, his voice edged with irritation and something else… disappointment? “You just wanted to be what?”

  This was getting hard again, emotions surging through her, stress gnawing at her guts.

  “Free,” she finally managed.

  His displeasure accelerated with the volume of his voice. “You're not…

  free,

  here?”

  She shook her head. “Of course I'm free here. That's not it… this isn't about you or the Clan. It's about me. Moody… ” She touched the back of her neck, indicating her barcode. “… you know I'm not the only one like me.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, quieter now.

  Max sat forward. “I came upon information this morning, about where one of my brothers may be. I'm not positive. But I need to find out for myself.”

  Moody's sigh was endless. “I always feared this day would come. I always… dreaded it.”

  “You do understand, then?”

  His dark eyes were sad as he gave her a little shrug. “You don't have enough… family here?”

  “I have a large family here. The Clan will always be my family, but… ”

  “But?”

  Max looked at the floor, then up at Moody again, their eyes locking. “

  They

  were my family first. Yours was the family I adopted.”

  “And that adopted you.”

  “That's right. And you've been good to me. And I've done well by you.”

  He nodded slowly.

  She shook her head, dark hair bouncing. “We've talked about this, Moody. You know all I've ever wanted is to find my sibs.”

  He looked at her for a long time. Then, wearily, he said, “I know I'm being unfair, Maxine… but I don't want to lose you.”

  “I'll be back someday. If not to stay, to visit. Visit my family.”

  That made him smile, but it was a melancholy thing, nonetheless. “The Clan has been strengthened by having you in it, Max.”

  “Thank you,�
� she said, standing. “But with the payday you'll get for the Heart of the Ocean, everything should be fine.”

  Rising, he said, “That's probably true… nonetheless, your absence will be felt.” He came around the desk and stood facing her. “Can you wait until after the exchange? I could use the backup.”

  She shook her head regretfully. “I think he's in trouble, my brother, and I need to find him as soon as possible.”

  “Where is it you're going?”

  “I'm just going, Moody. Where I'm going means nothing, except to me.”

  Moody accepted that with a nod. “You have enough money?”

  “I have a stash. It won't last forever, but it'll get me where I'm going… Moody, I'm sorry.”

  “Maxine, don't apologize for following your heart… not ever. Such instincts are the only pure thing left in this polluted world.”

  Her smile was warm, her gaze fond. “You have been a hell of a teacher.”

  “Have I?” He reached for something on his desk: a photo. “Know this?”

  She took it in with a glance, answered matter-of-factly, “

  Trafalgar Square

  by Mondrian. Piet Mondrian.”

  His smile was admiring— and she could tell the admiration was not just for her good looks.

  Gesturing with the photo, her mentor said, “Most of the cretins who inhabit this city believe the Mondrian to be a hotel from the pre-Pulse days and nothing more. But you know his paintings, all of them… ”

  “… Most of them… ”

  “…

  all

  of them, and what they're worth, and what they can be fenced for, and where to find them.”

  “You taught me how to be a good thief.”

  “I refined you, my dear. You were a good thief when you joined the Clan… Now, you are the best.”

  He went back around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a wad of bills with a rubber band around it. He tossed it to her, she caught it, looked at it—

  damn, at least five grand!

  — and tossed the packet back.

  “Moody, I told you— I got a stash.”

  An embarrassed smile crossed Moody's face. “You have some money, I'm sure; but I've always kept back part of your share… just in case this day ever came. To tell you the truth, I do it for all of you.”

  “You don't,” she said simply.

  “Ah… no. But it sounded good.” He lobbed the bundle back to her. “In your case, however, I did… because I was grooming you to sit beside me.”

  More than just sit,

  she thought; but said, “I don't want this, Moody. Use it for the kids.”

  He shook his head. “You'll need it more than we will: you said it yourself, we're about to have the biggest payday ever. We'll be more than fine.”

  Hefting the bills, she said, “No hard feelings, then?”

  His eyes and nostrils flared. “Of

  course

  there are hard feelings, my dear, that's what life largely is, hard feelings… but there's no anger, and not a little love. You go, Maxine, you find your brother, and if you want, bring him back here with you. Then you will both have a family.”

  This time Max was aware of the tears trickling down her cheeks. She rounded the desk and hugged Moody. They embraced for a long time.

  When she finally pulled back, Max asked, “You'll tell the… rest of the gang?” She gestured toward the theater. “I hate fucking good-byes.”

  “Are you sure you don't want to?”

  She shook her head. “God no! I'm crying just telling

  you

  … how do you think I'd do with them?”

  He laughed gently. “Ah, Maxine, my Maxine… for a genetically enhanced killing machine, you don't seem very tough.”

  “Well then help me preserve my image. You tell the kids good-bye for me.”

  A smirk dug a hole in one of Moody's cheeks. “I guess this is one negotiation I'm destined to lose.”

  They hugged one last time.

  Before she left, Max called Fresca up into the projection booth and asked him to watch it for her until she got back from “a little trip” she had to take.

  “Can't I come with you?” he moaned; even his freckles seemed to droop.

  “No, I need you here. You're my

  guy,

  aren't you?”

  “I am? I mean… I am!”

  She shrugged with her shoulders and her mouth. “Well, then, kid— watch my shit for me. All I'm takin' is my bike.”

  “No prob!”

  She put an arm around him conspiratorially. “And I want you to do one more thing for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Keep an eye on Niner. She seems like a good kid, but she's green… she needs a

  man

  to look out for her.”

  Fresca seemed to pump up a little at the thought Max considered him a man. “Count on it!”

  “And here, Fres— take this.” She handed him a wad of bills, about half what Moody had given her.

  His eyes were like fried eggs. “Max, you're

  kidding,

  right?”

  “Put that in your pocket, and don't tell anybody that you have it, or where you got it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everybody needs a secret stash o' cash… and that's yours.”

  “Rad,” he said breathlessly, thumb riffling the thickness of bills.

  “And always remember, Fres— you're my brother, too.”

  He frowned in confusion. “‘Too'? You got another brother?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I'll let you know.”

  They hugged, then she said, “Gotta blaze.”

  “Better blaze then,” he said.

  And she walked her bike out, and was gone.

  Chapter Five

  WELCOME TO THE

  MONKEY HOUSE

  THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY

  EUREKA, CALIFORNIA, 2019

  Like poison mushrooms, they sprang up all around the country after the Pulse, these villages of ramshackle shacks where people— little more than refugees really— came to live and, frequently, die. Named Jamestowns— after Michael James, the president of the United States when the Pulse hit— the ragtag hamlets were a twenty-first-century variation on the Hoovervilles of the previous century's Great Depression, those packing-crate communities named after another less-than-stellar president.

  This Jamestown, located on the east side of Eureka, California, had been around since just after the LA Quake of 2012. What had started with only a few cardboard hovels had become— following a frontier pattern hardly new to the state— an actual town over the last seven years, complete with bars, trading posts, a church, and even a roughshod school. Covering acres that used to be the Sequoia Park Zoo, the Jamestown had incorporated the zoo's animal housing for its own varied purposes.

  Though most of the zoo had been converted to human shelter, the monkey house had long since become a bar of the same name, also serving humans, at least technically. Bordering the Monkey House (which had a neon sign wired to its bars) were towering ravines of stately redwoods, which most people— even the rough sort who came and went to such Jamestowns— had the good sense to avoid at night. Though the village was more or less peaceful, the woods was where the majority of the bad things around here happened: the usual… murders, rapes, robberies. The foliage of the forest would never lack for fertilizer, thanks to the flow of decomposing bodies.

  Across the main walkway from the Monkey House, army-navy surplus tents had been pitched around the former zoo's structures, providing temporary shelter for the hundreds of travelers who stayed anywhere from a day to three or four months, depending on their ability— financial and/or physical— to move on.

  For the last few weeks, the tent city had been home to a band of barbaric SoCal bikers, descendants of a notorious pre-Pulse biker gang called the Hell's Angels. The New Hellions took their name seriously, were suffused
with pride in their mongrel pedigree, and tried to live up to that image every day, in every way.

  Strolling at twilight through this nasty-ass post-Pulse slum as if it were a benign street fair was a slim, beautiful, busty black woman with high cheekbones, a wide nose, and huge brown eyes shaded with blue eye shadow; her dark eyebrows curved with an ironic confidence that was no pose and her large, rather puffy Afro had been dressed up with a few pink stripes for good measure.

  For a woman alone in a tough town, “Original Cindy” McEachin showed no fear… neither did she feel any.

  Her pants were a second skin of leather, jet black, with an orange, midriff-baring top so tight it hardly needed the spaghetti straps, showing off not only her flat tummy but the tops of her breasts and bare shoulders, like a dare. Not surprisingly, many males took that dare, this striking female drawing goo-goo-eyed, drop-jawed stares from the few bikers who weren't already in the Monkey House.

  You damn well

  better

  be starin',

  she thought; her heels were spikes, but she couldn't have moved easier in tennies.

  You ain't never seen nothin' like Original Cindy— lookee but no touchee, you barbaric bozos…

  Crossing the walkway, shaking what God had given her, Original Cindy all but bumped into a biker couple exiting the Monkey House.

  The burly man's automatic frown flipped into a yellow-green grin when he saw the shapely form he'd almost collided with; he had long, tangled brown hair, which may have been washed at some time or other, and wore only a ragged denim vest with his obligatory jeans and boots. Despite a hairy beer belly, the biker had arms rivaling the trunks of the surrounding sequoias, each bicep tattooed with snakes that curled around and undulated whenever he flexed.

  “My bad,” Original Cindy drawled.

  The guy had slithered one snake arm around his date, a thin little former prom queen in jeans and a black-leather-and-chains halter, with long blond hair, puffy lips, tired blue eyes, and a sultry air about her; drugs and booze had not yet robbed her of all her appeal.

  Original Cindy smiled at the woman, who smiled knowingly back.

  The big drunk biker, thinking the smile was for him, said, “I jus' might accept that apology, Brown Sugar,” and took a step toward Original Cindy…