When the Plymouth pulled in to the curb in front of Paula’s apartment building, Tremaine didn’t ask to come up, and Paula didn’t invite him. They sat for a while in silence, the engine idling.
“Tremaine,” Paula said. “What is that, first or last name?”
“Neither,” Tremaine said. “Well, that’s not true. It is my last name, but it’s the only name I use on my stories. It’s the only name I use anywhere.”
“Isn’t there something else I can call you? I feel weird calling you Tremaine. If we’re going to be spending more time together, there must be something. Like a first name?”
Tremaine smiled. “Yes, there’s a first name.”
“So what is it?”
“Ian.”
Paula smiled back at him. “That’s a name that’ll do.” She got out of the car, closed the door, then stuck her head in through the open window. “Goodbye, Ian. Call me. Or I’ll call you.”
He nodded. “Goodbye, Paula.”
She backed away, and Tremaine put the car in gear and pulled out into the street. Paula was tired, and didn’t want to move. She stood on the sidewalk, watching the Plymouth drive away.
A cough sounded behind her, and Paula turned. A figure emerged from the building shadows, left hand outstretched.
“Got a buck, lady?”
The man’s voice was harsh and croaking. His hair was ragged, almost choppy, his beard scraggly, and his face was smeared with burn scars between the ragged clumps of hair. The man’s right hand was heavily bandaged, and the arm hung awkwardly at his side. He was a wreck, but there was something familiar about him.
With her right hand in her jacket pocket, fingers gripping the gravity knife, Paula dug into her jeans with her other hand, pulled out a couple of bills. A five and a one. She took a couple of steps forward, held out the bills, then set them in the man’s outstretched hand. The man’s fingers curled around the money; then he nodded and said, “Thanks, lady,” and turned away.
The eyes. That was what was so familiar, his eyes. Paula watched the man shuffle down the street. Mixer. They were like Mixer’s eyes, she thought, and another ache drove through her chest. Chick and Mixer. Jesus. Paula turned away from the man and climbed the steps to the building’s front door.
NINETEEN
CARLUCCI SAT IN the basement dark, listening to Miles Davis. Soundtrack pieces from an old movie called Siesta. He’d watched the movie once, but it was too damn weird for him; the music, though, was great. He watched the pulsing colored lights of the sound system, the shimmer of the street light pooling in through the tiny, high basement window. His trumpet lay on the sofa beside him, untouched for the last hour. All he wanted to do was listen to Miles blow.
The basement door opened, light slashing down the stairs. Christina stood in the doorway, a shadow outlined by the hall light.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but there’s someone at the door for you.”
“That’s all right.” He sat forward, blinking. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, she wouldn’t say. A woman.”
“I’ll be right up.” He picked up the remote and shut down the system, then climbed the stairs.
On the front porch stood a woman in dark robes, beautiful blue eyes gazing at him. “Frank Carlucci?” she said. Her hair was damp, and Carlucci could see wet sidewalk and street behind her.
“Yes.”
“I’m Saint Lucy.”
Carlucci looked at her, at her robes, her soft leather boots, her long hair, those stunning blue eyes. She didn’t look crazy. “Saint Lucy,” he finally repeated.
“Yes,” the woman said. “One of the Saints.”
“And you want to talk to me.”
St. Lucy nodded. “It’s about Minor Danzig.”
“Who?”
“Sorry. Mixer.”
Mixer. Carlucci took a step back. “Come on in. We can talk inside.”
St. Lucy shook her head. “No, just come with me, please. Mixer is alive, and he wants to talk to you. I’m to take you to him.”
Mixer alive. Was it true? Or just a scam to lure him somewhere? Looking at St. Lucy, he couldn’t quite believe she was lying. Which meant nothing, he knew. He also knew that she wouldn’t be answering too many questions from him. It was either go with her now, or not.
“Will we be going into the Tenderloin?” he asked.
St. Lucy hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“All right,” Carlucci said. “I’ll go with you. You want to come inside and wait for a minute? I’ve got to get a couple things, let my family know I’m going.”
“I’ll wait here,” St. Lucy said.
Carlucci left the front door open. Andrea and Christina, in the kitchen, looked up at him as he came in.
“I’ve got to go out for a while,” he told them. “I have no idea how late I’ll be.”
“Where’s the woman?” Andrea asked.
“Waiting on the porch. She wouldn’t come inside.” Heglanced back through the doorway, but couldn’t quite see St. Lucy.
Carlucci went into the bedroom, opened the closet, and took out his shoulder holster; he worked his arms into it, then reached up onto the top shelf for his 9mm Browning, tucked it into the holster. Finally, he put on his slick-skin raincoat.
He returned to the kitchen, kissed Andrea and Christina goodbye, then joined St. Lucy on the front porch, locking the door behind him.
“You want me to drive?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We’ll take the streetcar.”
Carlucci nodded, then he and St. Lucy stepped down from the porch and headed down the street.
Carlucci never felt quite comfortable in the Tenderloin. He wasn’t afraid, he just thought he stood out, that everyone on the street looked at him and knew he was a cop, knew he didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. He’d known cops who did seem to fit into the Tenderloin—Tanner, Koto, Francie Miller—but he wasn’t one of them. The last time he’d been inside the Tenderloin was three years ago, when they’d brought out the Chain Killer.
It was sensory overload for Carlucci. The lights, the flashing and sweeping signs, the message streamers swimming through the air, vehicles of all kinds jammed into the roadways, and the swarming mass of people. Most parts of the city were crowded, but there was nothing like this anywhere else.
Carlucci and St. Lucy were in the Euro Quarter, but close to the Asian so that he caught occasional glimpses of a Red Dragon in the air a few blocks away, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Directly above them here in the Euro, tensor wires were strung across the streets from building to building, at the fourth floor and higher. Carlucci watched the flashes of color shooting across them.
St. Lucy took his arm, guided him into a narrow alley that wasn’t as crowded as the street. Half a dozen barrel fires were burning, several people clustered around each one. A dogboy crawled past them, barking, the metal tail wagging through his pants. Parrots squawked from a mass of bromeliads on a landing three floors above. Two squealing girls on bicycles careened along the alley, bumping against people and the alley walls.
St. Lucy stopped before a wooden door, took a set of keys from inside the folds of her robes, and unlocked the door. She opened it, stepped quickly inside, and pressed her hand against a wall plate. She pulled Carlucci in after her, then shut the door and locked it.
They were in a bare entry. St. Lucy led the way down a hall, then up a stairway. The plaster walls were cracked, covered with a mosaic of paint and peeling wallpaper. Light came from dim, bare bulbs in ceramic wall sockets up near the ceiling. On the third floor they left the stairwell, entered another hall. St. Lucy stopped just outside an open doorway, and gestured inside. Carlucci approached the doorway and looked in.
Sitting at a table in a small kitchen was a bearded wreck of a man, his forehead and upper cheeks swirled with burn scars. He was holding a thick ceramic mug with a hand that was a hideous and fascinating fusion of metal and flesh. The man raised
the mug to his mouth, the movement stiff and unsure, then returned it to the table.
“I’ll leave you alone,” St. Lucy said. She touched Carlucci’s arm, then walked away, along the hall, down the stairs.
“Hey, Carlucci,” the man said.
“Mixer?” There was something familiar about the man’s voice, something about his face despite the beard and scars.
“Yeah, it’s me. Hell of a disguise, isn’t it?” He raised his mug. “Want some coffee?”
Carlucci shook his head. For some reason he was reluctant to enter the room. “People think you’re dead.”
Mixer nodded. “Come in and sit down, for Christ’s sake. It’s not catching.”
Carlucci entered the room, walked to the table, and sat across from Mixer. Close up, he could see it was Mixer sitting in front of him; but close up, Mixer looked even worse. Especially the hand, scarred flesh fused to metal, both flesh and metal bent and distorted in places they shouldn’t be. Mixer was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and Carlucci had the impression the damage extended up along his arm.
“Does Paula know you’re alive?”
Mixer shook his head. “Other than Saint Katherine and Saint Lucy, you’re the only one.”
“Jesus, Mixer, what the fuck happened?”
Mixer made a sound that might have been some kind of laugh. “The Saints happened. Saint Katherine, especially.” He looked away and breathed deeply once. “Saint Katherine’s Trial. Total burn, man.” He held up his right hand and stared at it, the metal and flesh melted together like cooled lava. “I was wearing an exoskeleton. It kind of got fused to me.” He finally looked back at Carlucci. “But I survived. And I’m alive.”
Carlucci nodded. “And you’re not a spikehead anymore.” Mixer smiled. “Yeah, how ’bout that?” He got up from the table, took his mug to the stove, and poured himself more coffee. There was an amber bottle beside the stove, and he uncapped it, poured some into the coffee. He turned to Carlucci, holding up the bottle. “How ’bout a drink?”
“What is it?” Not that it mattered, really.
“Bad Scotch.”
“Sure,” Carlucci said. He noticed that now Mixer’s right arm hung limply at his side, and that he had switched to doing everything with his left. Mixer brought his own mug to the table, got another from the cupboard, hooked the handle with his left thumb and grabbed the bottle with fingers and palm, brought mug and bottle to the table, and set them before Carlucci. He poured Scotch into Carlucci’s mug, then sat down heavily.
“How bad’s the arm?” Carlucci asked.
“Bad,” Mixer said. “But it gets better every day. They’re trying to replace or repair some of the exo motors so they can help out more.” He held the arm up for a moment, then dropped it back to the table. “It’s what saved my life apparently.”
Mixer left it at that, and Carlucci sipped from the mug. Mixer was right, the Scotch was bad; it burned his lips and tongue. But it also burned going down his throat and into his stomach, and Carlucci thought maybe that was good.
“The Saints announced you were dead.” When Mixer nodded, Carlucci said, “Why?”
“They were paid to kill me.”
After a long silence, Carlucci again asked, “Why?”, meaning something different this time. And then, “Who?”
Mixer gave out the choking laugh sound again. “Yeah, those two questions are tied together, aren’t they?” He drank from his coffee, then reached across the table for the Scotch and added more to his mug. “The mayor paid them,” he said. “Not directly, of course, but they found out who it was.” Mixer shrugged. “Why? I don’t know, but I’ve got an idea.”
“Which is?”
Mixer shook his head and drank again before continuing. “I don’t really know anything, you gotta understand that. Which is why I never thought I had this kind of trouble. I don’t know what it’s about. But I can put Chick and the mayor’s nephew together. I had connections to both, Chick was a friend, and they’re both dead.” He shook his head again. “I think maybe somebody decided I know more than I do.” Mixer winced, put his hand to his shoulder and rubbed, twisting head and neck.
“You all right?” Carlucci asked.
“Christ, I’m alive. No complaints.”
“That’s another question,” Carlucci said. “Why are you still alive?”
Mixer breathed deeply twice. “I survived the trial,” he said. “Never happened before. The trial always leaves the accused dead, or a mental washout. I survived.”
“But the Saints announced you did die in the trial.”
“Most of the Saints think I did. Apparently I looked dead when they hauled me away. Saint Katherine and Saint Lucy are the only ones who know I’m alive. They saved my life. They got a doctor for me, nursed me. Saint Katherine and Saint Lucy saved my life.”
“It was Saint Katherine’s trial?”
“Right.”
“And who took the contract to kill you?”
“Saint Katherine and Saint Lucy,” Mixer said, smiling. “Then why the hell did they save your life?”
“It’s complicated.” After a long pause, Mixer shook his head. “No, I’m not going to try to explain it. It doesn’t matter.”
“But they announced that you had died.”
Mixer nodded. “For my protection. And theirs. We’re all better off if the mayor and his pals think I’m dead.”
Carlucci sipped more of the bad Scotch. He needed it. “All right, then. What do you know about this?”
Mixer drank, shifted in the chair; he slid his right arm slowly back and forth across the table, making a harsh, scratching noise. “Body-bags, to start with. Chick and I bootlegged them. We were in it with Jenny Woo and Poppy Chandler. The mayor’s nephew provided a lot of the big financing.”
“Body-bags,” Carlucci said, shaking his head. He pictured a man completely wrapped in neural nets, twitching and twitching, eyes rolled back, foam spattering from his mouth. “Nice business,” he said.
Mixer looked away, seemed to gaze out the kitchen window. There was nothing outside to be seen except grate-covered windows and crumbling brick across the way. “Yeah,” Mixer said, “it’s a fucked business. It’s what we did.” He turned back to Carlucci. “But it’s not something to get killed over.”
“So what is?”
Mixer shrugged. “Chick had something going with Kashen, or had hooked something from Kashen, I could never be sure. The nephew, not the mayor. Chick didn’t talk about it, except to say he’d finally gone nuclear, and was going to make enough money never to have to do a deal again. He was going to retire.” Mixer shook his head. “Well, he retired all right.”
“And you don’t know what he had?”
“No. Something to do with New Hong Kong, something to do with the mayor. It was all messy. Kashen and his uncle, that was a wonky deal, too. Kashen couldn’t stand his uncle, but they were connected, they were logged into each other. Kashen was doing something for him, something to do with New Hong Kong. But the way Kashen talked, he was getting ready to screw over his uncle somehow.” Mixer shrugged again. “I think Chick was mixed up in all that. And Chick... man, that guy never knew when he was in over his head, and he always was. He wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was, and it finally got him killed.” He raised a ragged eyebrow at Carlucci, a distorted gesture with all the scarring. “That’s what I know,” he said. “Which shouldn’t be enough to get me killed, but it just about did.” He drank again, then held the mug out toward Carlucci. “I plan to know a hell of a lot more.” He lowered his mug, then raised his right arm, rotating it slightly and wincing. “I’ve already paid for it, and I’m going to know just what the fuck I’ve paid for.”
“How are you going to do that?” Carlucci asked.
“I don’t know yet. Saint Katherine and Saint Lucy will help me, and they have a lot of strange contacts. And there’s something else. You know who Tremaine is?”
Tremaine again. Carlucci nodded.
�
�He’s digging into this mess,” Mixer said. “He’s been asking Paula about Chick. I got a feeling he might know more about what’s going on than any of us.”
Wouldn’t be the first time, Carlucci thought. “I think I want to talk to him,” Carlucci said.
“Yeah, so do I. Might not be too hard. He’s been seeing Paula, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, personally. You know.” Mixer gave a harsh laugh. “Like maybe they’re slippin’ ’n’ slidin’ between the sheets.” He closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them. “I don’t know,” he said, somber now. “I think it started, he was asking her about Chick, and something happened between them. Sparks or something.”
Sparks. Carlucci hadn’t heard from Sparks yet, and he should have by now. If Paula and Tremaine were spending time together, what did that mean? Anything?
“I need to talk to Tremaine,” he said to Mixer.
“I’m going to see Paula soon, let her know I’m still alive. I’ll let her know you want to talk to him. I’ll let her know I want to talk to him.” He brought the mug to his lips, then looked down into it. “Fuck the coffee.” He set the mug down, poured Scotch into it. He looked at Carlucci. “More?”
Carlucci finished off the Scotch in his mug, then held the mug out to Mixer. Mixer poured. “Tell Paula not to mention to Tremaine that I’m looking into Chick’s death. Just that it’s to do with the mayor’s nephew.”
“Okay.”
They drank a while in silence. Mixer was obviously in pain, but didn’t say anything.
“Is there anything you need?” Carlucci eventually asked. “Something I can do for you?”
“No,” Mixer said. “What I need you can’t give me.” He paused, shaking his head. “Shit, I feel like an old man. Not just physically.” He raised his right arm and gestured at his head with metal and flesh, not quite touching it with his fingers. “In here, too. I feel older inside.”
“Wiser?” Carlucci asked.
Mixer smiled. “No, just older.”
Mixer had survived the trial, he was still alive, but Carlucci wondered if he would ever really recover. “Are you all right here?” he asked. “They’re not holding you? Against your will?”
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