It was Binkowski, one of the men they’d seen downstairs earlier.
Binkowski barely seemed to notice Knile, but his eyes lingered on Ursie for a few moments longer. He never broke stride in his conversation with the woman, babbling on as she stared down her nose at him in thinly disguised contempt.
“And then I told him that he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Binkowski said in his nasally voice, turning back to the blonde. “And you should have seen his face! Holy shit, did that go down like a slum hooker! I thought he was going to cry, no crap. So I just got up and started walking out of there…”
The conversation trailed off as they moved away, and when they had rounded the next bend Ursie glanced over her shoulder nervously.
“Don’t turn around,” Knile said sharply.
“But that guy was–”
“I know who he was. Just keep going.”
“Do you think he recognised you?”
“I’m not sure. I think he was too busy trying to get laid. We might have caught a break.” Knile pointed to an adjacent hallway. “Down this way.”
This level contained none of the spacious greenhouse compartments that they’d seen earlier, and the ceilings and walls pressed in lower and tighter, much like they had done in Gaslight. The floors had been stripped back to bare concrete, and they bore the scars of machinery and heavy implements that had been dragged about over the years. There were also patches of sand and clumps of dark soil that had collected in the furrows in the concrete. There was more of it scattered across the floor, and as the two of them walked it crunched underfoot.
“Y’know, I’ve heard that name ‘Wilt’ somewhere before,” Ursie said. “I’m just not sure where.”
“If I get some time, I might see if I can find out some more specifics about him,” Knile said. “For now, I know all I need to know. If he has enough sway to organise search parties, he has money or power. Probably both.”
“And what have you got?”
Knile considered. “A passkey. And one angry little psycher,” he added.
She smirked. “What does he want with you?”
“That’s a crap shoot. Could be anything. Maybe he had a loved one died in the explosion in the Atrium, and he blames me for it and wants me dead for retribution. Hell, for all I know, it’s you he’s after. Maybe he wants whatever you have in your case.”
“No one knows about that,” Ursie insisted.
“Don’t be too sure about what people do and do not know about you, kid. The walls have ears in the Reach.”
Ursie glanced over at him. “You’re avoiding one of the reasons, aren’t you?”
“The passkey?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. There’s every chance he could be after that. There was an intermediary involved in getting word to me about the passkey, a guy who might have sold the information to this Wilt guy. In fact, I half expected he would. But I wouldn’t have come back here if I didn’t think I could handle whatever was thrown my way. I–”
They crossed an intersection with another hallway and heard a sharp noise to their left.
“There!” the man shouted shrilly. Knile and Ursie turned as one to see Binkowski not far away, his stubby finger pointed in their direction. Beside him was the man in the suit with the tattoo of a star on his cheekbone.
The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
“Run!” Knile roared, shoving Ursie forward and ducking his head as the man in the suit loosed a shot that blew a chunk of plaster from the wall. They scampered down the hall and then turned into an open plan area filled with mouldy partitions and desks crammed with junk. It looked like an office or administrative area from the distant past. They kept running, staying low enough to be concealed below the cubicle walls, zigging and zagging to throw off their pursuers and making as little noise as possible.
Beyond the cubicles were a string of executive rooms with frosted glass walls, and these too had been converted to little more than junk collection boxes. There were old plastic crates, broken hoses, cardboard boxes full of dead grow lights and countless lengths of black irrigation pipes.
Knile heard the pursuers arrive at the cubicles and begin to frantically search the area, making a racket as they knocked piles of trash aside and overturned desks and chairs. He guided Ursie forward, setting an unrelenting pace and hoping that those behind them would spend a few more precious minutes searching the area in vain.
Alton stood in the centre of the market in Gaslight, one hand in his pocket and the other idly stroking his chin. He watched the first of the early morning stragglers as they filtered past, heads bowed and eyes downcast as they went about their errands. His eyes alighted on each face and drank in every detail, like a bee flitting from flower to flower in search of nectar.
Knile Oberend was not here. There had been no sign of him through the long, dark night.
And yet, Alton’s conviction did not waver. He was still certain that Oberend would be found, that the passkey would be brought before him, just as it should.
And so my last day on Earth begins, Alton thought.
Tucker appeared at his shoulder, haggard and with dark circles under his eyes, but still focussed and resolute.
“Still no word,” he said.
Alton nodded. “Has there been a report from Inspector Cuskelly yet?”
“From that fat fuck? Not a thing. I wouldn’t count on his input at all. He’s probably hiding under his desk right now, hoping we’ll just go away.”
“He may need a reminder.”
“If he’s hiding in the Enforcer barracks, there’s not a lot we can do.”
“Like any whale, he has to come up for air at some point.”
Tucker grinned. “I’ll ready the harpoons, boss.”
At that moment Alton’s holophone rang and he lifted it to his ear.
“This is Wilt.”
“Mr. Wilt, this is Jordan. I have news for you.”
“Mr. Jordan,” Alton said. “How is the Greenhouse this time of morning?”
“Pretty fuckin’ spectacular, sir. I just saw your mark.”
Alton stiffened and then snapped his fingers to gain Tucker’s attention. The bald man’s eyes widened and he stepped closer to listen in on the conversation.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Jordan?” Wilt said.
“He’s here, in the Greenhouse. Or at least, he was. He’s a slippery fuck. I got a shot off at him but I missed.”
“Where did he go?”
“I’m not sure. I have a man searching for him right now, but we could use some help.”
“Done. Do you have any more information?”
“Yeah, he was dressed in maintenance gear from what I could tell. Wearing grey coveralls.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “You might be looking for two people. He had someone with him, might have been a short woman or a kid. I didn’t get a close look at her.”
“Outstanding, Mr. Jordan,” Wilt said. “Where are you now?”
“Level One-Fifty. Top level of the Greenhouse. Section C, I think.”
“Good. You’re going to have a few friends with you very soon. Keep looking and report in with anything else you find.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Wilt.”
Alton swiped away the call and then replaced the holophone in his pocket. Tucker was already headed toward the elevators, two steps ahead of him.
“Get a team to go help Jordan,” Alton instructed. “Get another team in the tier above that to start looking around, just in case he’s already made it through. What’s above the Greenhouse?”
“It’s Manufacturing. I’m on it,” Tucker said.
“Update the search attributes and disseminate to the teams. The mark could be with an accomplice, and they may be wearing maintenance uniforms.”
“Way ahead of you, Mr. Wilt.”
“And when you’re done with that, have someone bring me breakfast. I’m sta
rving.”
28
Duran watched the woman slide down the shiny metal pole. Her tanned and slender legs wrapped around the glistening metal, comfortably supporting the weight of her naked upper body as she arched outward with languid grace. Splaying her arms out as she inverted, she let her tangle of chocolatey-brown hair tumble downward like a waterfall so that it almost touched the floor. She slid her fingers across her taut stomach, along the mounds of her breasts and then through her lustrous hair, dragging strands of it outward as her arms reached their full extension.
The throbbing music picked up tempo, and the woman’s body responded, thrusting and gyrating suggestively as she allowed herself to slide lower on the pole. As her head touched against the platform at the bottom she arched her neck further so that she could look out into the crowd, her dreamy, half-lidded eyes drifting from one patron to the next as a sensual smile drew up the corners of her mouth. She locked gazes with Duran, but he only stared back at her impassively, conveying without words that she should try her luck elsewhere. Her own smile never skipped a beat as she looked away, scanning for a more accommodating target.
Duran drummed his fingers on his legs impatiently. He didn’t like it here. He hadn’t been to Love Rockets in years, but it hadn’t changed much since he’d been away. It was still gloomy and stank of stale beer. The walls above the bar were still decorated with the same cheap knock-off memorabilia: wagon wheels made of plastic; battered twentieth century license plates; a black Gibson Les Paul, minus strings, that also had the tacky sheen of a plastic replica; a faded red stop sign that was riddled with buckshot.
It was a shithole, no doubt about it. Yet it was still one of the more popular nightspots in Gaslight.
Dawn had come and gone, yet the patrons inside Love Rockets were oblivious to the fact that the night had ended, dancing and drinking and ogling the strippers as if party time had just begun. The sunlight never penetrated this far inside the Reach, close to the core of the structure. As far as the people here were concerned, night and day were merely shifting, malleable concepts that were able to be bent to their whim. The night would only end when they had squeezed every last drop of pleasure from its already desiccated remains. It would only end when they found it convenient.
“You gonna drink something, sugar?” A waitress carrying a tray of empty glasses appeared beside him. She was naked except for a diamond-studded black thong and a gold bracelet on her wrist. Her hair was raven and plaited neatly, tucked over one shoulder. She stood with one hip thrust out as she chewed a piece of gum with exaggerated gnashing movements.
“Where’s your boss?” Duran said by way of answer. “I need to speak to Eerkens.”
“I ain’t Mr. Eerkens’ secretary, baby,” the woman said testily. Her tone indicated that she was used to dealing with drunks and imbeciles, and that she’d given up tolerating bullshit a long time ago. “You want a drink or a lap dance, I can get that. But I don’t make no men appear outta thin air.”
Duran waved her away and she turned on her silver platform heels and stalked over to the next table. This was the third club run by Eerkens that Duran had tried, and so far there had been no sign of him. Duran knew that Eerkens was a hands-on type, the kind who never strayed too far from his establishments, forever keeping a close watch on the creds as they flowed from the customers’ pockets into his own. He would be around somewhere; Duran just wasn’t sure exactly where.
Duran got up, wondering if he should simply move on, but just then the door behind the bar opened and his target stepped out. Eerkens was a greasy-looking man with a crooked nose, dressed in a black leather jacket and pink polo shirt. A curl of metal that resembled a large fish hook was attached to the lobe of his right ear, and it was so unsightly that Duran couldn’t decide whether it was an ornament placed there for aesthetics or just a legacy of a nasty street fight, a fragment of a weapon that had broken off on his head that Eerkens hadn’t yet removed.
Eerkens moved along behind the bar, saying something to the barman as he headed toward the door, but Duran intercepted him before he could make it.
Eerkens jumped as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Inspector Duran! Damn! You’re still around.”
“Yeah, I am. How are you doing, Eerkens?”
“I thought I’d seen the back of you.” Eerkens turned to the barman and scowled. “And I thought I told you never to tell anyone I’m fuckin’ here.”
“I didn’t! Honest!” the barman said, his eyes darting between Eerkens and Duran. “I told him you ain’t been around here for ages, but he went and sat down waitin’ for you anyhow.”
Eerkens turned back to Duran and beamed a fake smile at him.
“You always were the persistent type, Inspector.”
“You know it.”
“So what’re you here for?” Eerkens said. “Juice? Pussy? What’s your poison?”
“Information.”
Eerkens shrugged. “Well, I don’t got none of that. You know me. I just keep my head in the sand and mind my own business.”
“Cut the crap,” Duran said.
“No, serious. I’m not really a player anymore, bwana. Y’know what I’m sayin’? Go see Planck over at the Rub n’ Tickle. He’s got his thumb on the pulse–”
“Shut up,” Duran said with a quiet intensity that caused Eerkens to stop in his tracks. Duran drew himself up. “I’ve had a very bad night so far. I haven’t slept, I’ve found no answers, and I’ve been running in circles. I’m about ready to put someone’s head through a fuckin’ wall, and you’re the closest target.”
“That’s Enforcer brutality,” Eerkens sneered. “You’re too much of a nice guy to do that, bwana.”
“Try me.”
“Look, Duran,” Eerkens said charitably, “why don’t you take five minutes with Savannah? On the house.” He jabbed his thumb at the brunette hanging from the pole in the centre of the club, who was whipping her hair around extravagantly in time with the throbbing trance beat.
Duran scowled at Eerkens. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, ignoring the offer. He held up his holophone for Eerkens to see. “This guy, Knile Oberend. Have you seen him or heard his name mentioned in the last twenty-four hours?”
Eerkens paled visibly and looked away from the image on the screen, blinking rapidly as if it hurt his eyes just to look at it.
“Nope,” he said quickly, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets, an innocent little pout on his face.
Duran reached out and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer.
“You’re the world’s worst poker player, Eerkens,” Duran growled. “Tell me what the fuck you know, right now!”
“Fuck you, bwana. I’m not helping no hong-eh,” Eerkens said adamantly.
“Yeah? Well, if you don’t help me, this hong-eh is gonna put you in the Cellar so fast your teeth will rattle. I’m sure there’s people there who would love to see you come through the door.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Eerkens said.
Duran’s teeth ground together as he pressed his face up against Eerkens’. He was close to something here; he could see it in Eerkens’ eyes. This was the first break he’d had since he’d started looking for Oberend the day before.
It might be his only break.
Duran’s grip tightened further, and then he wrenched the man to the side, sending him hurtling into the conglomeration of dirty brown liquor bottles that were clustered on the shelves behind the bar. They scattered and smashed on the floor, one of them breaking apart as it was pile driven by Eerkens’ oily head.
A few of the patrons at the tables turned their heads to see what was going on, but their interest was short-lived. Fights and fracas were not foreign in a place such as Love Rockets.
“Fuck!” Eerkens wailed, clutching at his face where blood and whiskey had intermingled as they ran down his cheek. “That was a bottle of imitation Johnnie, bwana! They don’t even make that shit anymore!”
Duran stepped
forward and gripped Eerkens’ shirt again, hauling him upright.
“Start talking, you piece of shit, or I’ll force-feed you the rest of the bottle, starting with the broken shards!”
“Okay, bwana,” Eerkens said, holding up his hands. “No problem.”
“Talk!”
Eerkens nervously licked whiskey from his lips as blood began to stain his polo shirt at the collar.
“Some guys came around yesterday talking about him. This Oberend guy. I never heard of him before that, I swear.”
“What were they saying?”
“They want him. They didn’t say why, but whatever it was, they were throwing around serious creds. And I’m talkin’ serious, bwana. These guys ain’t fuckin’ around. They’re offering a reward for any kind of talk on him – anyone who’s seen him, anyone who might know where he is.”
Duran’s mind whirled. It sounded like Oberend had pissed off the wrong people.
“Who’s driving it? Which gang?”
“It looked like Geisler’s men to me, bwana, but that’s not the name they were throwing around. They were talkin’ about some guy Wilt.”
“Wilt?” Duran had heard the name somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where.
“Yeah, Wilt, bwana. That’s all I know, I swear.”
Duran relented, letting go of Eerkens’ shirt and turning away. The greasy man stumbled backward and knocked a few more bottles askew before steadying himself on the counter.
“Wilt,” Duran repeated to himself, turning the name over in his mind as he probed at his memory. He glanced back at Eerkens and the man flinched as if it were a stone that Duran had thrown at him instead of a gaze.
Duran turned and headed for the door without another word.
Parnell yawned and rubbed his eye, glancing over his shoulder as Duran leaned in close to examine the terminal.
“This takes a minute to boot up,” he said, but Duran did not change his posture. Parnell edged his chair away slightly, the coasters squeaking as they rolled. He waved at the empty chair beside him. “Why didn’t you call Singh? He normally gets in earlier than me.”
“I don’t know Singh,” Duran said. “I know you.”
Earthbound (The Reach, Book 1) Page 23
