“The big one is Ben the Bear. Moe Flacco’s nephew.” The dame that spoke was almost too dreamy to exist. Flawless almond complexion, heart-shaped face, full rosebud lips, and dark, mysterious eyes that pulled me in like a whirlpool does a ship in a storm. Her dark hair was cut in a wavy spill to her shoulders and her sleeveless red velvet dress matched her stilettos. Her jewelry of choice was oyster fruit: ropes hung from her neck with earrings and bracelets to match.
She sat behind Greco in a corner desk facing a console, but even in the background she didn’t fit in the seedy vice den. It wasn’t because she was obviously out of Greco’s league. That was noticeable at first glance. No, it was because she’d be out of place anywhere. Her looks were too flawless, her eyes too knowing, her persona too self-assured. The only reason I didn’t peg her for a synoid was because of what lay behind her mystery eyes: the human combination of strength with fragility, intelligence with emotion.
She smiled demurely as though reading my thoughts. It wouldn’t have surprised me. All the best dames can.
She nodded toward me. “The shorter one is Michael Trudo, aka Mick Trubble. Former SS agent, now moonlighting as the resident Troubleshooter. He’s the man responsible for the takedown of some of New Haven’s more colorful characters, the latest being Tommy Tsunami. Tread carefully, Mr. Greco.”
“Yeah?” Greco rubbed his dilated eyes and smoothed back his sweat-dampened hair before fumbling for a pack of Lucky Strikes. He seemed to gather some focus after taking a hard drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke our direction.
“You former Service, eh? Didn’t know they let your type off the lease. Alive, anyhow.”
The trouble boys took a few wary steps back, hands reaching for the heat inside their jackets. Greco’s laughter was near delirious when he cut them off with a gesture. “Calm down, boys. Mr. Trubble ain’t here to raise any ruckus, or youse guys wouldn’t be walking right now. Why doncha duck out so we can chitchat for a bit. Make sure no chump is trying to count cards or something.”
“Ok, boss.” The lead lug sounded relieved.
I turned his way. “Our bean shooters. You can leave those here.”
The goon looked questioningly at Greco, who nodded impatiently. “Leave ‘em here on the desk and scram, will ya?”
After the trouble boys set the heaters down and exited, Greco turned back to me. “So, Mr. Troubleshooter. What is it I can do you fer?”
I planted a fist on his desk. “You can tell me what your beef with Moe Flacco is. And I in turn can keep him from ripping your heart out and making you eat it.”
Greco paused in the act of lighting another gasper. “Moe Flacco? What is this, some kinda joke?”
Ben the Bear sideswiped Greco’s desk with one hand, flinging it so forcefully it splintered against the wall. His other hand seized Greco by the collar and hauled him off his feet. Greco stared in drug-addled stupefaction, but that changed real quick when the force of Benny’s brawny fingers cut off his breathing. The discarded tardust sprinkled down around them like winter’s first snow.
“Does it look like we’re joking to you?” Benny’s face was a clenched muscle of rage, his neck riddled with distended veins. “You wanna take me out, bastard? Why wait ‘till I’m up the air? I’m right here–take your best shot.”
Greco gagged until his face turned scarlet. I bent down and retrieved his deck of Lucky Strikes. “You might wanna cool down, Benny.” I lit a gasper and nodded to the corner.
The dame had a Beretta in her gloved hand, expertly aimed at Benny’s forehead.
“Maybe we should hit the restart button.” I took a drag of cool menthol. “Slow things down a bit.”
Benny swallowed, gently setting Greco back on his feet. Oscar rubbed his throat, coughing while trying to salvage his damaged ego. “I should let Sinn decorate the wall with your brains for that move.”
“You should, but you won’t.” I exhaled a stream of smoke. “So let’s not get all outta sorts here, Mack. I asked a question earlier. You might wanna think about answering it, especially if the thought of swallowing your dinner without a tube sounds attractive to you.”
Greco massaged his throat with a wary glance at Ben the Bear. “You’re tooting the wrong ringer here, boys. I don’t know nothing about a beef with Flacco. You see my operation? Small fries. I ain’t got the manpower or connections to tussle in the big league. And you think I wanna cross Moe Flacco? What kind of a suicidal mark do you take me for?”
“The kind that doesn’t show up at important events.” I gave him my most disapproving stare. “Moe’s daughter was buried today. You weren’t there, were you? Seems like a pretty disrespectful move for someone who claims they don’t want any unwanted notice by New Haven’s most powerful kingpin.”
Greco’s eye twitched. He cut a glance at Ms. Sinn before answering. “I had some issues to take care of, see? Important business.” He turned to Ben the Bear. “You’ll tell your uncle, won’t you? No disrespect was intended. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Benny stared hard at him. “So you weren’t the one that tried to ram us off the skylanes tonight? That what you’re saying?”
Greco’s frown of confusion practically distorted his face. “Whaddya talking about? You were hit tonight? I swear I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that.”
I sighed. “Ok, Oscar. We believe you. Sorry to disturb your evening. Just the normal shakedown, you know how it goes. You don’t mind if I pick up my bean shooter, do you?”
“Go right ahead, Mr. Trubble.” Greco sounded immensely relieved. “You will give Moe Flacco my regards, won’t you? I’ll send him some flowers or something. You know, to make up for my absence.”
I slipped the Mean Ol’ Broad in the holster under my arm and handed Benny his Mauser. “Yeah, we’ll tell him something, Oscar.”
“Seriously? You do that for me and I’m in your debt. Come by anytime and I’ll set up a line for you, free of charge.”
“That’d be great, Oscar.” I spoke to Greco, but my eyes were on Ms. Sinn, who gazed back with just a hint of amusement. I tipped my Bogart as we made our way to the door. “See you around.”
I patted Ben the Bear on the back as we strode down the hall. “Nice move back there, Ace. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He paused, then gave a wry grin. “I didn’t have time to think about it, Mr. Trubble. I just got angry, was all.”
“We’ll make a bruiser outta you yet, kid.”
He took a backward glance. “So why are we hightailing it out of here, Mick? You had him on the ropes back there. He’d have given you anything you wanted.”
“Wait for it, Ace.”
Benny stopped in mid-stride. “Wait for what?”
“Mr. Trubble?”
Ms. Sinn’s voice was music to my ears. She glided our direction, every swaying step guaranteed to steam up a man’s eyeballs. “We need to talk.”
“Ms. Sinn, is it? Is that your first or your last name?”
“It is.” She offered a coy smile.
I grinned in response. “I got all I needed from your boyfriend there, Ms. Sinn. What could you possibly wanna gab with me about?”
Sinn’s voice was unruffled. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my employer. Right now he’s scared witless wondering if he’s a dead man or not.”
I shrugged indifferently. “The world won’t miss him either way. A gal like you can do better than a weak sister like Greco, and you know it.”
Her large doe eyes met mine. “All you need to know is everywhere I am, I’m right where I’m supposed to be, Mr. Trubble.”
“Like right now.”
“Like right now.” She smiled again. “We can’t talk here. Meet me in neutral territory somewhere in an hour and we’ll chat.”
“How about the Gaiden?”
“That’s not exactly neutral, Mick. That’s your territory.”
I winked at her. “Not to worry, I’ll keep you out of harm’s way. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”<
br />
“An hour, Mick. I have things to do.” She gave me a last lingering smile before sashaying back down the hall.
Ben stared that direction like a bear at a hunk of fresh steak. He whistled softly. “I don’t know about you, but I think I could drink her bath water and die happy.”
“Clean the slobber off your chin, Ace. If there’s one thing you gotta learn about dames, it’s this: never trust one that looks as fine as Ms. Sinn does. You’ll be in a world of trouble every time.”
“That one might be worth a little trouble, Mick.”
“Then you’re in the right place. Trouble is my business, remember? So when business is trouble, then business is good. Let’s blow this can house before Greco rediscovers his manhood and tries something stupid.”
“You still think he tried to bump us off tonight?”
I shook my head. “He’s an empty suit. Sinn is the brains behind his operation, which makes her even more dangerous than she looks. I don’t see her angle in attacking Flacco, but I aim to find out.”
“At the Gaiden?”
“Yeah. It’s where Scarlett found me before she died. If Sinn had anything to do with it, meeting there might rattle her a bit. I want you to get lost in the crowd, Benny. Find a quiet spot where you can see what’s going on, but I gotta deal with Sinn on my own.”
He looked at me askance. “What’s with all the caution, Mick? She’s just one chick.”
I tilted my Bogart over my eyes and lit another smoke. “That’s all it takes to pull a man down, Ace. Keep a sharp eye out. We ain’t outta the woods yet.”
Chapter 8: A Dame Named Sinn
Scarlett’s ghost met me as soon as I walked through the doors of the Gaiden. I half expected her to come striding through the haze and gaze at me with those heartbreaking eyes once again. I heard her voice whisper softly in my ear.
Dance with me…
My usual seat was at the bar but I chose a corner booth instead, where I could watch everyone who came through. Benny tried too hard to look casual posted up at the bar at the opposite side, which made him appear all the more conspicuous. Still, the way he hulked over the counter guaranteed nobody would give him any trouble. It paid to look like a bruiser, especially if you were as soft as Benny was.
I ordered a Bulleit Neat from a passing barmaid. Probably needed a clear head, but the booze was more to steady my nerves than to drown my sorrows. Ms. Sinn rattled me more than I was ready to admit, and it wasn’t just because of her bedroom eyes. It was because of what she knew.
The Gaiden wasn’t as busy as usual, mainly because many of the regulars were just departing from Scarlett’s funeral. Normally a lot of wise guys and their molls frequented the joint, looking for a departure from the glossy yet lackluster nightclubs securely stationed in the Uppers. Downtown was the locale to rub elbows with all sorts of folks, from contraband dealers to corporate gangsters and every type in between; important intermingling of the complex interlaced connections that acted as the oil that kept New Haven’s infrastructure running. Nightclubs like the Gaiden were more than just social gathering halls. They served as neutral ground for all sorts of factions to discuss various business interests, both legal and illegal.
The joint slowly started to fill. Smooth cats stalked the bar and booths, escorting fine dames in clinging gowns and furs. Gasper smoke made everything hazy, filling the air with its potent perfume. A small jazz band jammed onstage: a piano man, trumpet player, and bass guitarist. They weren’t half bad, but they were no substitute for Fats the Jazz Man.
I thought about our conversation earlier. I’d never given much thought to the future, especially when my past was just as mysterious. But the thought of ditching the life of gunning and running seemed mighty appealing the more I considered it. Taking up partnership in the Gaiden with Fats would be a smart move, all things considered. Maybe settle down, ease into a normal way of life and find a diamond of a dame to make an honest man outta me. Fortunately I knew just where to find one…
The barmaid set my bourbon down along with a martini she placed across from me.
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t order the olive, sweetheart.”
“It’s for me.” The barmaid’s voice was instantly familiar. “After all, you don’t want me to chat with a dry throat, do you, Mick?”
Ms. Sinn sat down opposite me, smiling like a cat over a bowl of cream. She looked like she’d been born in a barmaid dress, blending in the joint as though she’d worked there all of her life. Her martini was clear, which meant she wasn’t drinking for show or fun. Meant she could handle herself without having to resort to girlish maneuvers.
I nodded to the drink. “Gin or vodka?”
Her lips curved. “You know a true martini takes gin, Mick. Vodka is for amateurs who don’t know any better. The purpose of drinking a martini is to enjoy the taste. With vodka all you taste is the vermouth and garnish.”
The dame was good.
She calmly sipped her drink. “Do I make you uneasy, Mick?”
I drained my bourbon in a single swallow. “You strike me as the type that knows the answers before you ask them, Ms. Sinn. So why don’t we just skip to the part where you tell me what the hell it is you want.”
She smiled. “We’ll get to that. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“You know things about me.” It was hard gazing into her soul-sucking eyes without turning away, but I managed to hold my own. “Things not too many folks are supposed to know about. It’s mighty impolite to go shouting a man’s personal business. Especially without that man’s permission.”
“You’re referring to my earlier statement where I revealed your former name and occupation. I wouldn’t worry about Oscar Greco doing anything with that information. Not only is he not intelligent enough to even realize the value of what was said, he’ll more than likely be dead within a week. Either by his own vices or his bad business deals, but in either case your secret is still safe.”
“If it’s a secret, you wouldn’t know about it.” I lifted a finger to the passing barmaid for a reload. “Why are you working for him if he’s such a buffoon?”
“I’m working for myself, Mick. Greco is simply a means to an end.”
“Ok, fine. But any info about me is supposed to be wrapped pretty tight. So why don’t you tip your mitts and spill on what else you know.”
She leaned back, studying me over the rim of her glass. “Very well, Mick. This one’s free. The next will cost you. I know your given name is Michael Trudo. Orphaned at the age of three. Your father left before you were born and died in a botched robbery, and your mother was a drug addict who died of an overdose. Orphans are valuable commodities in a system where nothing is wasted, so you were picked up and raised in a military compound at Haven One, where you learned military tactics, espionage, and assassination along with your rudimentary academic schooling.
“You were inducted in the Secret Service at age eighteen, where you excelled as a ‘shadow’, one of those rare beings that kill with no conscience or remorse. After a time you were paired up with Natalie Stryker, a like-minded agent with a rather vicious streak. The two of you became lovers, a relationship that never interfered with your wetwork. After excelling at several key ops, you were assigned on a solo mission to infiltrate this Haven, kill Dr. Grant Faraday and recover his thermal orbot, a personal data bank loaded with priceless technological prototypes, advancements, and data stolen from Haven One.”
Sinn finished her martini and toyed with the impaled olive. “You know the rest, of course. Faraday was one step ahead of you, capturing you upon infiltration and rebooting your mind, as it were. He inserted you with new memories, those of a down-and-out Troubleshooter instead of a senseless killer. He stored your real memories into a synoid that goes by the implausible name of Hunter Valentino, whereabouts unknown. The result is a fascinating blend of personas as you chose to adopt your new identity and forsook your former one, creating an entirely different individual even a
s your old memories melded into Hunter’s data core, altering the synoid in unimaginable ways.”
I tried to keep cool the whole spiel, but my heart pumped diesel and my nerves were decidedly shot. I lifted my glass to my lips, forgetting it was empty. The disappointment was mild in the face of being punched in the gut by Ms. Sinn’s offhanded yet lethal delivery.
“How the hell do you know all of this? I didn’t even know some of that. You’d have to be ex-Service or high up in the top brass to even crack open my Service file. Who the hell are you, lady?”
A new barmaid returned with fresh drinks. I downed mine and motioned for her to keep ‘em coming. Sinn wet her lips with her martini and kept that coy smile on her face.
“The information is easy to gather when you have the proper equipment, Mick. In my case, my mind is all I need to access whatever information is available. My eyes see much differently than yours, you see. Streams of endless data glimmer like golden threads, and all I have to do is reach out to enrich myself. I can link to any computer system, access every surveillance orbot, enter any digital access point, download and systematize the contents in seconds. The entire network of New Haven streams live through my mind at every given moment, allowing me to see and hear everything I need to.”
I squinted at her. “You’re a bioroid. I’ll be damned.”
She ran her fingers through her softly curled hair. “You expected wires sprouting from my head? That was Gen 1 equipment. A long time ago. And our community doesn’t exactly love the term ‘bioroid’. It implies an artificial being.”
“So what do you call your kind?”
A smile touched her lips. “Human. I am just as human as you are. Simply less restricted in exploring my mental potential.”
“Doesn’t have the same ring as ‘bioroid’. I thought most folks die within a year of those implants.”
Her eyes dropped, studying the clear contents of her glass. “Most do. One has to already be mentally gifted in order to survive the initial trauma. The mind has built-in barriers that are overrun like crumbling levees by the flow of new information once the implants are in place. Not many can survive the initial distress.”
The Troubleshooter: The Most Dangerous Dame Page 8
