As he approached, she saw him and stopped pacing. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and puffy, and the rest of her face was pale. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked her age, maybe even a little older.
“Hello, Paula,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Hello, Lieutenant.” She shook his hand, her grip firm in spite of the way she looked.
“Come on,” Carlucci said. “Call me Frank.”
“Okay. Frank.”
“You look terrible.”
She half smiled. “People keep telling me that. Think there’s something to it?”
“Want something to eat?” he asked, gesturing at a cart nearby selling sausages and giant pretzels.“God, no.” Paula shook her head. “Coffee, though, I could use.”
Carlucci nodded. There were a couple of coffee carts on the other side of the pond. “I’ll buy,” he said. “How do you want it?”
“Black,” said Paula. “As black as you can get it.”
Carlucci walked along the edge of the pond, stepping across the overflow channels, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he went. The heat was stifling again, as if they were back in July or August. Where the hell was fall?
He bought two large coffees from the girl running one of the carts; she couldn’t have been more than thirteen, and she was pregnant. Carlucci gave her a tip that was double the price of the coffee.
When he got back to Paula, he handed her one of the coffees and they stood together sipping at them, gazing out at the muck-covered pond. Something heaved under the muck, out near the middle, and Paula laughed.
“I wonder what lives in there,” she said. “I think everyone’s afraid to clean off the crap and find out.”
“Fish, or snakes,” Carlucci suggested. “Turtles, maybe.”
“Mutant alligators,” Paula said. She looked at him. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t think calling your office was a good idea.”
“I didn’t give you my home number?” When Paula shook her head, Carlucci frowned. “Sorry. I should have. I thought I had.”
“Why did you call?” Paula asked.
“I need to tell you some things.” Carlucci hesitated, staring down into his coffee. “It’s an incredible mess. It’s not just Chick’s murder anymore. There’s a lot more involved.”
“Like what?”
Carlucci shook his head. “Christ, I don’t know. I mean, I know some of it, but I don’t know what I should be telling you. Too much firepower, too damn many things that could blow up in my face.”
“Are you dropping it?” Paula asked.
“No. I half wish I was, but no.” He looked out at the pond and drank from his coffee. “There’s no more screwing around. What I’ve done up to now has been pretty much risk-free, checking into a few things here and there. I’ve found a lot, but none of it good.” He shook his head again and looked back at Paula. “Nothing’s going to be risk-free any longer. Not for me, not for you. You’ve got to know that.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what’s involved.”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking it’s better for both of us if I’m the only one who knows.” Damage control, Carlucci thought, if everything goes to shit on me. But he didn’t say it.
“Look, that’s up to you,” Paula said. “But I’m not sure I can help much if I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
“I know. I’ll think about it.” He paused. “What I really need now is to talk to Mixer.”
Paula gave a choked laugh. “Good luck.”
“What is it?”
She slowly shook her head. “I’ve been looking for him for days.”
“Why?”
“You know who the Saints are?”
“I’ve heard of them,” Carlucci said. “Some women in the Tenderloin, they take on the names of old Saints, right? Most of what I’ve heard sounds a little crazy.”
Paula gave him something like a smile. “Then most of what you’ve heard is probably true.” The smile faded. “They take people off the street and put them on trial. ‘Trial’ meaning some kind of torture like the historical saints were put through.” She paused, breathing deeply. “About a week ago they picked up Mixer. Saint Katherine was to put him on trial a few days ago.” She turned away from him. “The survivors of Saint Katherine’s trials end up with scrambled eggs for brains. I look like shit because I’ve been spending nights in the Tenderloin looking for him, hoping I could find what’s left of the bastard before the scavengers pick him clean.”
“No sign of him?” Carlucci asked.
“No,” Paula said. “A friend told me last night that she’d heard something went wrong with the trial, but nobody knows what. No one knows what happened—if he’s dead, if he’s still alive, if he’s fucked up, nothing.” She looked back at Carlucci. “I’ve got a little hope, but not much. I wouldn’t count on him for anything, if I were you.”
“You think there’s any connection between Chick’s death and the Saints picking up Mixer?”
“I doubt it. The Saints live in another world, and I don’t think it’s got much in common with ours. They don’t do anything for anyone but themselves.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“What do you think?” Paula said. Then, “Sorry.” She drank the rest of her coffee and walked over to a trash can on the sidewalk. The can was overflowing, and Carlucci watched her standing in front of it, crumpling the cup in her hand, squeezing it over and over. Finally she shoved the crushed cup into the other trash, wiped her hands on her jeans, and walked back.
“Something else I need to tell you,” she said. “One of the names I gave you last week. Jenny Woo.”
“Yes.”
“Something there, I think. She’s worth an extra look. She thought I was following her, and she warned me off. Told me getting dead like Chick wasn’t going to do anyone any good.” She paused for a moment, then went on. “She and Chick were bootlegging body-bags. Anyway, she gave me the impression she knew exactly why Chick had been killed.”
“All right,” Carlucci said. “Anything like that will help.” He took a business card from his wallet, jotted down his home number, and handed the card to Paula. “Any time, day or night, you need to call me, do it, all right?”
Paula stuck the card in her back pocket and nodded. “One other thing,” she said. “You know who Tremaine is?” Carlucci nodded, his gut tightening.
“He’s poking around in this. He came to see me, wanted to talk to me about Chick.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. What should I tell him?”
Carlucci shrugged. “I don’t know if it really matters. That guy, if he’s got a story, and puts it all together, nothing will keep him from sending it out over the nets.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Then Paula sighed heavily. “I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“Mixer...” Carlucci started, but he didn’t finish. She knew better. “Let me know if you find him.”
Paula nodded again, then turned and walked away without another word. Carlucci watched her cross the plaza, hands jammed into her pockets, head down. She turned a corner and was gone.
Tremaine. I should talk to him, Carlucci thought. He probably knows more about what’s going on than anyone.
Carlucci looked into his coffee cup, which was still half full. His stomach rebelled at the thought of any more coffee right now. He stepped to the edge of the pond and poured out what was left in the cup. Drink up, he said silently to whatever was living beneath the muck. Drink up.
Carlucci stood at the mouth of an alley across from the outer edge of the Tenderloin. One more meeting before returning to the station. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before Sparks was supposed to be there. Just about right. Sparks would be early.
He hesitated before entering the narrow passageway. The sun had broken through the clouds and haze and glared down on him; sweat dripped down his neck, rolled down h
is sides under his shirt. Steam rose from the alley floor where the sun sliced in. Sometimes, like now, Carlucci wished he still carried a gun. At least it wasn’t nighttime.
He started into the alley. His first few steps were through the rising steam, but he was soon past it and into shadow, his shoes splashing through shallow rain puddles. Above him hung fire escapes and huge sprays of flowering bromeliads; water dripped on him, almost like rain.
Halfway along the alley, on the right, were two concrete steps leading up to a metal door. Carlucci climbed the steps and pushed open the door, which swung inward with an echoing screech. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He had expected darkness, but dappled light came in through broken windows and large cracks in the walls, strangely illuminating the huge, empty, high-ceilinged room.
An old machine shop or storage facility, Carlucci guessed, Cooler than outside, a welcome relief. The floor was a mix of broken concrete and dirt, scattered with wood and metal debris. A dark, open doorway broke the solid interior wall across from him, and Carlucci stood in the cool shadows, listening and watching the doorway.
A minute or two later, he heard a harsh coughing, and Sparks appeared in the doorway. Sparks stopped for a moment, blinking, then came into the room. He coughed again, shaking his head. Sparks was tall and gaunt, his eyes dark, his cheeks hollow; a slice of light from outside cut across his neck, revealing the jagged lines of needle marks. Dermal patches were everywhere on the streets, but some people still needed those needles, straight shots to the veins, the heart.
“Carlucci,” Sparks said. “You’re early.”
“So are you.”
Sparks smiled. “Have you got anything for me?”
Carlucci worked his way across the rubble until he was just a foot or two from Sparks. Sparks was younger than Carlucci, but looked much older. He’d been a hot-shot demon once, freelancing for the cops in addition to several big corporations, hacking his way through life and getting rich, until one night his nervous system had taken a huge hit from a defective black-market head juicer. His career as a demon was over. His life was over. His career as a junkie had just begun.
Carlucci took a small wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to Sparks. “More later, if you can get me some whisper.”
Sparks pocketed the money, then broke into a long coughing fit, doubling over for a minute or two before it eased. He straightened, coughed a few more times, then sighed heavily. “I’m dying,” he said.
“I know,” Carlucci replied.
“Can you get me into a hospice?” Sparks asked.
“I don’t know.” Carlucci turned away, unable to maintain eye contact. “I’ll try, Sparks.” He turned back to face the old junkie. Not that old, really, but old for a needle freak. “I’ll try.”
Sparks nodded, then said, “What do you want?”
“Chick Roberts.” Carlucci paused for a few seconds as Sparks closed his eyes, locking in the name, then opened them again. “Jenny Woo.” Another pause, Sparks’s eyes closing, opening. “William Kashen.” One final pause. “Robert Butler.” Carlucci stopped, trying to decide whether to throw in Mixer. He wasn’t completely sure where Mixer fit in, and he was afraid of complicating things. Gut feeling said to leave it there, so he did. “How are they connected?” he finished up.
Sparks made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Three of them are dead.” Another cough. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can come up with. I’ll be in touch.” He started to turn, then shifted back around, looking at Carlucci with his head cocked.
“There’s something to do with New Hong Kong in all this,” he said.
Without another word, Sparks turned and walked back through the doorway. Carlucci remained where he was, feeling that their conversation, their meeting, whatever it was, wasn’t quite finished. But Sparks was gone, and there was nothing more to say.
Carlucci walked back across the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the alley. The heat struck him hard, and he was dizzy for a moment. The plants overhead dripped steadily on him. Fuck this city, Carlucci said to himself. He took the two steps to the alley floor, turned, and headed for the street.
Amy was sitting on the steps of Paula’s apartment building, head back against the brick, eyes shaded by pixie-specs. Paula’s stomach dropped and turned in on itself when she saw her. She walked up the steps, and Amy stood.
“Have you heard something?” Paula asked.
Amy nodded. “The Saints made an announcement on the local net.” She took a piece of paper from her jeans pocket. “‘A pilgrim who took the name Mixer was put to Saint Katherine’s Trial,’” she read. “‘The trial was a glorious event, producing holy immolation never before seen in the trials. Clearly, Mixer was a chosen, a prophet, whose dying cries provided profound revelations to the gathered Saints and witnesses. He passed the trial superbly, in spirit if not in flesh, and will be remembered as a glorious martyr in the family of Saints.’” She stopped, looked up at Paula. “That’s it.”
“He’s dead.” Paula looked down at the piece of paper in Amy’s hand. “Mixer’s dead.”
Amy nodded, but didn’t speak.
Paula could hardly move, could hardly breathe. She turned her head slowly, squinted against the glare of the sun that seemed so hot and huge in the sky. The street and buildings were bleached out all around her. She turned back to Amy.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”
Amy nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Paula gestured at the piece of paper in Amy’s hand. “Can I have that?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Paula took the sheet from Amy, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her pocket, next to the gravity knife. “Thanks.” She went to the building door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
Several hours later, Paula climbed the stairs of her apartment building again, Tremaine just behind her. Her legs felt heavy, her breath was short and halting. Even her sense of hearing seemed to go in and out—one moment their footsteps were loud and echoing in the stairwell, Tremaine’s breathing clear and close, and the next a swirling filled her ears and she could hear nothing at all.
Tremaine was coming up to her apartment, and she knew where it all was headed, and she was half certain it was a terrible idea. She had no one to blame but herself.
They’d eaten dinner at Mai’s, good food and even better wine—an expensive bottle of Chardonnay bought by Tremaine. A long, relaxing meal, followed by coffee and mint ice cream, then a walk through the noise and energy of the Polk Corridor. The sexual tension was strong, almost suffocating, and it was crazy to try to deny it was there. She didn’t tell him about Mixer. She wasn’t sure why.
Tremaine had suggested going somewhere for a drink, and Paula had said, Why not my apartment? It was quiet, they could be alone, talk, have some peace. You sure? Tremaine had asked. She hadn’t been, but she’d said yes anyway, her heart pounding against her ribs.
And now, here they were, at her door. Paula unlocked the dead bolt, stuck another key in the main lock, punched in her security code, then turned the key. The lock clicked and she pushed open the door. The only light on in the apartment was a small fluorescent over the kitchen sink. Paula brushed her hand along the wall and turned on the overheads, which lit up the large room that served as kitchen and entry. She held the door wide, and Tremaine followed her in.
The kitchen half of the front room looked normal, with table and chairs, stove and refrigerator, but the other half was a mess, stacks and piles of boxes and bags and crates, all the stuff she’d kept from Chick’s apartment—tapes, discs, books, sound system, video sets and cameras, recording and mixing equipment, his guitars. Paula stood staring at it for a long time, hardly aware of Tremaine beside her, noticing it all for the first time in days. Ever since she’d moved it here in Nikky’s van, she’d been able to ignore it. Now, having invited Tremaine into the apartment, knowing what was going to happen, she felt like Chick�
��s things were everywhere, overwhelming the place.
“What’s wrong?” Tremaine asked.
Paula shook her head. “All this.” She waved at it, afraid it was going to move and grow. “Chick. All this stuff is his. I haven’t been able to do anything with it.” And there was Mixer, too, dead like Chick, but again she didn’t mention him.
There was a long silence, and Paula continued to stare at the clutter, not moving. She didn’t know what to do or say.
“Do you want me to leave?” Tremaine asked.
Paula turned to look at him. He would, she realized. If she asked him to, he would turn around and walk out. “No,” she said. “No.” Her heart was beating harder again; she could feel it in her throat. “Stay.”
Tremaine nodded, reached out and lightly brushed her cheek.
Still unsure, feeling sick to her stomach, Paula led Tremaine into the dark bedroom.
Shadows and dim light, the smell of sawdust and sweat. Tremaine’s weight above her, his body slick and heavy, dipping and thrusting. Paula wanted to push him away, wanted to scramble out of bed, wanted to cry. She could not stop thinking of Chick.
Tremaine was warm, gentle, caring with her, but it didn’t matter. It was a mistake, Paula thought, a terrible mistake, and it was way too late.
She saw Chick sitting by the open bedroom window, smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the night. She saw him sitting at the kitchen table, barefoot, wearing blue jeans and shirtless, drinking coffee, smiling at her. She saw him onstage beside her, wailing away at his guitar, hair sticky with sweat. And she felt his mouth on hers, his lips and tongue and fingers on her skin and inside her.
Paula squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears, and held onto Tremaine with everything she had.
Paula woke, feeling strangely groggy. It was still dark. She was alone in bed. Had Tremaine gone? She glanced at the tiny glowing clock face next to the bed. Three-thirty. Would he have left without saying anything?
Carlucci's Edge Page 14
