Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  Paula thought she knew how this story ended. She drank the rest of her beer, then said, “And she found it?”

  Sheela nodded. “She found it. Signed up and went off to New Hong Kong.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. Never heard from her again. Never tried to find out for myself.” She turned to Paula. “You know, I hear the medicos up in New Hong Kong are working on immortality.”

  Paula shook her head. “Not immortality. Life extension.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really.” Paula shrugged. “Those stories have been drifting around for years. Everyone’s searching for longer life.”

  “Yeah,” Sheela said, “but I hear they’re getting close.”

  “I’ve been hearing that for years, too. I doubt it. Doesn’t really matter if they are. You think we’d get a shot at it? They sure as hell won’t want people like us living forever with them.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Sheela looked down at the beer bottle once more. “Want another?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Sheela grabbed her empty bottle, pulled herself to her feet, then reached out for Paula’s empty. Paula handed it to her, and Sheela said, “I’ll be ...” then stopped. She dropped the bottles, her head jerked twice, a kind of smile forming, and she slowly, slowly crumpled to the metal grating. The melters had kicked in.

  Paula sighed, looking down at Sheela, some of the lyrics for “Again,” a Black Angels song, going through her head:

  I’m never...

  I’m never...

  I’m never gonna get

  Fucked up

  Like this Again!

  In fact, Sheela had written those lyrics. Sheela, who now lay in a crumpled heap on the fire escape, eyelids fluttering, fingers twitching occasionally. Live forever? Right. Why in hell would you want to be doing this any longer than you had to?

  Paula moved the bottles out of the way, then knelt beside Sheela and grabbed hold of her under her arms. She pushed herself slowly to her feet, leaned back, and pulled Sheela to the open bedroom window.

  After that it was a struggle—propping Sheela against the building, going in through the window, reaching back out to take hold of Sheela again, heaving her up and onto the windowsill, dragging her over the sill and into the apartment. Once she had her inside, it was a little easier. She dragged Sheela across the floor, then pulled and pushed her onto the bed. It was plenty warm, so there was no need for a blanket. Besides, the melters would be heating her just fine.

  Paula sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, recovering her breath, and watched her friend. Sheela didn’t move much, other than the fluttering eyelids and the mild twitching of her hands and feet. One day, Paula thought, Sheela’s nervous system was going to do a hard crash if she didn’t stop this. She was one hell of a drummer, but she put way too much shit into her body.

  Paula looked at the glowing digital clock in the wall next to the bed. Eleven fifteen. She should be leaving soon to meet Mixer. She got up from the bed and crawled back out onto the fire escape to get the empties. The recruiting van was almost directly below her now, and she could read it.

  ATLANTIS II, the huge, lighted letters spelled out as they flowed across the panels attached to the van roof. So it wasn’t for New Hong Kong. On the side of the van itself, three video panels showed a running series of images—color shots of the first undersea dome being built on the floor of the Caribbean, along with computer-generated conceptions of how it would look when completed. The images were probably even more appealing than the ones Sheela had seen of New Hong Kong. Crystalline blue water, lush aquatic plants; a dome filled with spectacular buildings and gardens; incredible views of the water through the dome itself, with schools of brilliant tropical fish.

  Then more text scrolled across the roof panels:

  WORKERS NEEDED ** SKILLED OR UNSKILLED ** EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECTS ** GOOD PAY, FINE HOUSING, EXCELLENT BENEFITS.

  The pictures and images and text repeated as the van rolled slowly past and continued down the street.

  Atlantis II, the undersea dome. It all sounded so peaceful and inviting, Paula thought. Paradise on Earth. And New Hong Kong was Paradise in Orbit. It might almost be tempting if she didn’t know what was really being offered. Still, this recruiter might do all right. It was probably a better contract than most, and there were always people desperate enough to go for it, even if they knew the reality.

  Paula picked up the empties and crawled back inside. It was time to go meet Mixer.

  Paula stood on the roof of her apartment building, waiting for Mixer. Midnight meetings on rooftops. Mixer was a romantic at heart—mystery, melodrama, suspense, atmosphere. From here she could see the upper reaches of a corner of the Tenderloin: elliptical strings of blinking lights marking the rooftop mini-satellite dishes; spinning reflections of seeded catch traps; irregular outlines of razor wire; a couple of small fires, shadowed figures moving among the flames. The Tenderloin. Mixer’s home.

  Gravel crunched, and Paula turned to see Mixer walking toward her. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and as he approached, she could see lines of metal—narrow tubing, wire, complex joints—surrounding his right hand and fingers and extending up his arm beneath his shirt. Exoskeleton. She wondered how far it went, and why he had it.

  “Hey, Paula,” Mixer said, grinning and saluting her with his right hand, metal brushing the twisted spikes of crusted skin on his forehead. She could just barely hear the soft whir of the exoskeleton’s motors. She could also see now that it extended all the way along each finger, past the last knuckle, with special finger pad attachments so he could grip normally, hold onto things. “What do you think?” he asked. “It’s an exoskeleton.”

  “I know what it is,” Paula said. “You do something to your arm?”

  Mixer shook his head. “No, it’s just an augmentation.” He stripped off his shirt, revealing the entire thing. The exo ran up his arm to the shoulder, where it connected to a metal, plastic, and leather harness that fit across his upper back and chest. “Rabid, isn’t it?”

  “How did you manage it?” A true exoskeleton was incredibly expensive, and had to be custom-designed, built, and calibrated.

  “I did someone a favor.” He put his shirt back on. “It took six months and a dozen fittings before it was finished.” He stretched out his right arm and looked at it with admiration, though only the hand section of the exo was now visible. “Final fitting just an hour ago.” He flexed the fingers, then wiggled them at a fantastic speed, metal flickering like a strobe.

  “Must have been some favor.”

  Mixer shrugged. Paula knew he wouldn’t tell her about it, which was fine. She didn’t want to know.

  “So you saw Carlucci today?” Mixer said.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  “What’s to think? I talked to him for maybe half an hour.” She put her hands in her jacket pockets. “You’re probably right about the man. I got a good hit off him.”

  Mixer nodded. “He’s a good cop. An honest cop.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t know if he’ll be able to do anything,” Paula said. “He kept telling me, ‘No promises.’ ”

  “He’s got to be careful,” Mixer said, nodding slowly. “If the cops are trying to sink this thing, he’ll have to go real easy.” He shrugged.

  “Sounds to me like he might not be able to go after it at all.”

  “He’ll go after it,” Mixer said. “I know him. And if he doesn’t go on his own, I’ll give him a nudge.”

  Paula looked at him. “You know something about Chick’s death?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged again.

  “Jesus, Mix, how much do you know?”

  “Nothing, really,” Mixer said, “and that’s the truth, babe. I’ve heard some things, been hearing some things for weeks. I tried to warn Chick, told him he might be getting in up to his neck again. Looks like he got in a hell of a lot
deeper than that.” Mixer shook his head. “I don’t know who killed him, Paula. I don’t really know why he got himself killed, but I have an idea or two.”

  “Like what?”

  Mixer shook his head; he wasn’t going to say any more.

  “Jesus, Mixer, I hope you’re not in this enough to get yourself killed, too.”

  “Not me, babe.”

  “Mixer.” Paula sighed heavily. “Don’t call me ‘babe.’ We—I’ve been through that before.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

  They stood together at the edge of the roof, looking out at the night. Paula hadn’t heard a siren in a long time, which gave the night an eerie, quiet feel, though of course it wasn’t all that quiet. On the street below, an all female thrasher pack cruised past, motorized boards growling at low idle. A trio of rollers wandered in and out of the street, chanting, their head-wheels spinning. And from somewhere nearby came the distorted racket of metal-bang rock.

  “I miss the skinny bastard,” Mixer said.

  “Yeah.”

  Mixer turned to look at Paula. “How are you doing?”

  The ache jammed up against her chest again. When was it going to stop? “Got a hole in my heart,” she said.

  Mixer nodded and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. The ridges of the exoskeleton felt strange to Paula, yet comforting.

  “Need anything?” Mixer asked.

  Paula shook her head.

  Mixer leaned into her, kissed her on the cheek. “Let me know.” Paula nodded. “And let me know what you hear from Carlucci.” Paula nodded again, and he let her go. “I’ll talk to you.” He turned and walked toward the roof ladder, gravel crunching under his shoes.

  Paula gazed down at the street below and listened to Mixer’s footsteps until he’d crossed the roof, descended the ladder, and was gone. Gone. Just like Chick, except she’d never see Chick again. “Aw, shit,” she whispered to herself. “Chick ...” But she didn’t know what else to say except his name. “Chick ...” she said again, then nothing more.

  Paula remained on the roof a long time, fighting the tears until she just didn’t have the energy to hold them back any longer. She sat on the roof ledge, legs dangling, arms pressed into her sides, and cried.

  THREE

  MIXER WAS BACK on home turf, surrounded by light and sound, crowds and moving vehicles, color and the crash of city music. Walking the streets of the Tenderloin at night. One in the morning, the Tenderloin was still peaking, humming all around him. Message streamers shimmered above the street, swimming in and out of existence, hawking goods, announcing special events, calling for job applicants, crying for help or love.

  Mixer didn’t pay much attention to the activity around him. He was feeling out of sorts. It was his talk with Paula about Chick, about Carlucci. He liked Carlucci all right, but thinking about the homicide cop always made him think about Sookie, which brought up the old aches inside him. No, he didn’t just feel out of sorts, he felt damn shitty.

  Sookie. Thirteen years old, the final victim of the Chain Killer. Tanner and Carlucci had caught the bastard, and the guy had ended up dead, but not before he had killed Sookie, tattooed angel wings onto her eyelids, and grafted metal bands and chains to her wrists and ankles. Mixer had been at the lagoon with Tanner and Carlucci when she’d been pulled out of the water. Shit, he wished he hadn’t seen that. Three years later it still made him sick when he thought about it, still gave him nightmares once or twice a month. He had seen a few dead people in his life, and some things a lot worse, but nothing had ever bothered him like that. Sookie had been special to him, and he figured it must be like losing a sister or daughter, though he’d never had either.

  Mixer stopped in front of a crasher shop and lit a cigarette. He had a little trouble flicking the lighter with the exoskeleton, but he managed it. He still hadn’t decided whether to keep the exo on around the clock, or just put it on for special occasions. For now he’d leave it on, see how awkward it was. Might be worth any hassles, it was pretty fucking rabid.

  Mixer checked his watch. Ten minutes to his meet with Chandler. Better move it. He started down the street, thinking how Chandler would be impressed with the exo. But, impressed enough to tell him something about Chick?

  Two blocks, walking fast, he tossed the cigarette, then shot across the street, darting through traffic. He bumped into a patchwork beggar who was stumbling along the sidewalk with eyeblinds and a fingerless stub for a hand. The beggar cried out, swung his good fist blindly toward Mixer, but Mixer blocked it with his right arm, and the beggar’s fist banged into the exoskeleton. The beggar yowled and staggered away. The exo was good for something, Mixer thought.

  He pulled open the lobby door of the Caterwaul Building, twelve stories of ugly, and stepped inside. Gunther, the beefy security guard with a hole in his face where his nose should have been, looked up from his chess game, recognized Mixer, and waved him through to the elevator. The chessboard spat a bishop at Gunther’s face, but he caught it inches away from his forehead, grinned at Mixer, and put the bishop back on the board.

  The elevator doors were already open and waiting; and Mixer entered. He hesitated, breathed deeply, and pushed the twelfth-floor button. As the doors closed, his chest tightened.There was a click, then the elevator lurched upward. Mixer started to sweat.

  Mixer hated elevators. Something like claustrophobia, he guessed. He had an irrational fear that the elevator would get stuck between floors and he would be hopelessly trapped for hours. But to meet Chandler he didn’t have a choice; Chandler had blocked off the stairs at the tenth floor, making the elevator the only access.

  Mixer stood in the middle of the elevator as it slowly rose, listening to the double ca-click ca-click at each floor, counting silently... five... six... He realized he had stopped breathing, and forced himself to start again, slowly in and out... ten... eleven... The elevator ground to a halt with a terrible groan. The doors slid open. Mixer stepped out.

  Chandler had gutted the entire twelfth floor several years back, turning it into a single, enormous room. Chandler traded in almost anything, and usually there were crates and cartons and foam-pack bundles stacked against the walls, several tables and chairs scattered throughout the room with computers, printers, and various kinds of analyzers and measurement devices, a dozen or more people, half of them security, and the whole place lit with lamps strung from the ceiling. Now, though, the room was nearly empty, silent, and dimly lit by a single overhead light. A few boxes against the right wall, under a window. A single folding chair in the middle of the room. Two wadded pieces of paper on the floor. Dust rolls.

  No Chandler. Nobody at all.

  Something was very wrong.

  The elevator doors started to close behind him. Mixer turned, watching them close and seal. He could have reached them in time, kept them open, but his gut said to let them go. Might not be a good idea to be in the elevator when it reached the ground floor. A groan sounded, and the elevator began its descent.

  On the other hand, if someone—Chandler?—wanted him, why hadn’t they been waiting when he stepped out of the elevator? Mixer scanned the shadows of the vast, empty room, half expecting someone to appear, lights to go on, or some explosion to go off. Nothing happened.

  Mixer felt calm and unafraid. There was no way to know what was going on here, no way to know if it even had anything to do with him. Chandler was into all kinds of shit, with all kinds of people, even New Hong Kong. The body-bags were only a sideline for him. This could be anything.

  Mixer walked around a little, listening to his own echoing footsteps. He could search the place, maybe find something. A clue. Right. What he should do is get out. Now. Stupid to take chances.

  But how? He still didn’t like the elevator. And the fire escape was out. Chandler had ripped it off the side of the building years ago. Elevator shaft, maybe. Force open the door, climb down the shaft to the tenth floor, force that door open, and he’d
be able to reach the stairs, maybe find a way out on one of the other floors.

  He went back to the elevator, tried to force open the outer door. There was nothing to grip; the edge of the door went too far into the wall, and the door didn’t budge. The exo would give him extra strength, but it wasn’t any help if he couldn’t get a grip on anything.

  He gave up on the elevator shaft, and stood gazing around the huge, empty room, thinking. He still wasn’t much worried, but he didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to. Shadows, pillars, barred windows. Ventilation shafts way too small.

  Stairs. The stairwell was in the corner, now deep in shadow. They were blocked at the tenth floor, but there might be a window in the stairwell, or... something. Mixer walked to the corner, slowing as the darkness increased, letting his eyes adjust. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, looking down, unable to clearly see more than a few steps in front of him.

  No sign of a window. Hell, just go. What else was there? He started down.

  Halfway to the next floor the stairs cornered and switched back, actually got a little bit brighter, light coming in from the door opening onto the eleventh floor. He stopped on the landing and stuck his head into the hallway. There was a window at the far end of the corridor, and open doors on both sides, light emerging in angled bands from most of them. He didn’t see or hear anything, but there was a mild stench coming from somewhere. He’d never been allowed on this floor, never known what Chandler used it for.