“Is that why you think we should give it all to Tremaine?” Carlucci shook his head. “I have no idea if it’s the right thing. I just don’t know what else to do.”
Paula nodded. It seemed to be enough for her. “I’m never going to find out who killed Chick, am I?”
“No.”
“It’s over,” she said. “But it’s not.”
“No,” Carlucci said. “Things like this are never completely over.”
Neither of them said anything for a minute. Paula took out her keys. “How are you getting home?” she asked.
“I’m going to splurge, catch a cab.” He paused, then said, “Be careful, Paula. Tremaine does his story, this place’ll get hairy when it breaks.”
“I know.” She shrugged.
“Will you be seeing him soon?”
“I guess.”
“Tell him I’ll talk to him.”
“I will.” She gave him a tired smile. “Good night, Frank Carlucci.”
“Good night, Paula Asgard.”
The mayor’s limo, long and dark and silent, was parked in front of Carlucci’s house when he arrived. Carlucci paid the cab driver, then waited for the cab to pull away. He watched his house, wondering how long the mayor had been here. He started up the walkway to the porch, thinking about the discs in his coat.
The rear door of the limo opened, startling Carlucci, and the mayor stepped out. Carlucci stopped, halfway along the walk, and waited for the mayor to join him.
The mayor’s expression was hard and ugly in the light from the porch. “If you fuck me, Frank, I’ll take you down with me.”
Too late, Carlucci thought, I already have. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I told you to bury my nephew’s case,” the mayor said. “No. I asked you if that’s what you wanted, and you said no.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Frank. You understood what I wanted. You knew exactly what I was asking for.”
Carlucci nodded, sighing. “I understood.”
“I’ve been hearing things. And I don’t like it. And not just about my nephew. The Chick Roberts case wasn’t even yours.”
“Who’s Chick Roberts?”
The mayor’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, and he slowly shook his head. “You fuck. I made you an offer, once. Not just your life, but a much longer life.”
“I didn’t realize at the time what you were offering.”
“You do now, don’t you?”
Carlucci nodded.
“The offer won’t be good much longer,” the mayor said. “And you won’t like the alternative. Your friend Mixer didn’t. Now you bury this shit, and bury it fast, before all hell breaks loose. You understand?”
“I understand.”
The mayor glanced toward the lighted windows of Carlucci’s house, then looked back at him. “Do you?”
Carlucci nodded. “I understand,” he repeated.
The mayor stared at him a while longer, then turned away without another word. Carlucci watched him climb back into the limo, slam the door shut. The engine started, headlights came on; then the limo pulled smoothly away from the curb and drove down the street.
Andrea opened the front door as he came up the steps. “Are you okay, Frank?”
Carlucci nodded. He stepped inside and Andrea closed the door, locking it and throwing the bolts.
“He was parked out there all evening,” Andrea said. “It was starting to worry me.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been drinking. A lot.”
Carlucci nodded again. “Too much.” He smiled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Why, Frank?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Carlucci took her hand in his and led the way into the kitchen. It was going to be a long, long talk.
Paula stood just inside her apartment, her back against the door, looking around the room. Her gaze stopped on the remaining boxes of Chick’s things. She would have to remind Mixer and the Saints that she wanted the music back, all those tapes and discs. All that was left of Chick.
Chick.
She walked into the bedroom, unzipped her jacket, took out the manila envelope filled with the text and diagrams from the discs, and tossed it onto the bed. Then she sat next to it, picked up the phone, and dialed Tremaine’s number.
It rang several times, finally was picked up. “Hello?” His voice was husky with sleep.
“Ian. It’s Paula.”
“What is it? Are you all right?” Voice clearer, now, alert.
“I’m fine,” Paula said. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
“Everything.”
There was another pause, longer. “Should I come over now?” Tremaine asked.
“Yes,” Paula replied. “I want you here, Ian.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Paula hung up the phone. She took off her jacket, then got up and sat in her recliner, facing the blank monitor. The disc with “Love at Ground Zero” was still in the player, but she couldn’t bring herself to watch it.
“I did what I could, Chick.” Her voice was a whisper, she could barely hear herself. “I did what I could.”
She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and waited for Tremaine.
BODY BAGS, RECRUITERS, AND MURDER:
New Hong Kong’s Search for Eternal Life by Tremaine
This story is not really about “Eternal Life.” This story is about life extension. But life extension so great it has the sound and feel of eternal life. Immortality. Life extension of as much as two hundred years.
Imagine living to be two hundred and fifty years old. Good, or bad? More importantly, at what cost?
The answer to this kind of life extension is not here yet, but it probably will be soon. And it will be the medical researchers of New Hong Kong who find it, because they are searching for it now, and they are closing in. They do not care, however, at what cost they find the answer. They do not care what the answer is. And for now, they will do anything to keep what they are doing a secret.
People have been killed in recent weeks, killed to keep this a secret. A guitarist and low-end drug dealer named Chick Roberts has been murdered. William Kashen, the nephew of San Francisco’s mayor, has been murdered. Robert Butler, William Kashen’s business partner, has been murdered. Rosa Weeks, M.D., and Poppy Chandler: two more murders. Almost certainly there have been others I am not aware of. There might be more to come. There is no way to know how or when this will all end.
But there was a beginning, a time when...
EPILOGUE
TWO WEEKS LATER, near midnight, Carlucci stood on the sidewalk outside The Palms, listening to the muted crash of music. Inside, the Black Angels were playing. Inside, was Paula Asgard.
A lot had happened in the last two weeks. Tremaine’s story had gone out over the nets, and for the next several days the city was in turmoil. Huge crowds of protesters had surrounded City Hall and kept city officials from leaving for a day and a half, until the police and National Guard had broken through. Someone launched two rockets into New Hong Kong’s headquarters in the Financial District, killing over thirty people and injuring hundreds. Small localized riots erupted throughout the city, most followed by large-scale looting and burning of cars and buildings. New Hong Kong suspended flights from Hunter’s Point.
The day Tremaine’s story broke over the nets, the mayor disappeared. There was a wild scene out at Hunter’s Point, crowds at the gates being fought off by security forces. The mayor, in his limousine, forced his way through the crowd and the first gates, wanting to board the last ship to New Hong Kong. But the main security team stopped him—apparently New Hong Kong had hung him out to dry, just as Monk hadhinted at, and ordered their security forces to prevent him from boarding. The mayor then left Hunter’s Point, and hadn’t been seen since. Word on the streets was that the Saints had kidnapped him and put him on trial. Carlucci didn’t know if it was tr
ue or not, but he hoped it was. He didn’t want to ever worry about Kashen again.
The day his story broke, Tremaine disappeared as well. Paula had called Carlucci to tell him. Afraid that New Hong Kong would come after him—enough people had died already—Tremaine had left the city. Paula didn’t know where he’d gone, or how long he’d be away. She’d sounded depressed, and Carlucci thought he understood—she’d lost someone else. First Chick; then Mixer, in a way; and now Tremaine.
Carlucci hadn’t seen her since that night with the Saints. They had talked several times on the phone, but their conversations were short and awkward, filled more with silences than words. Now, though, he had to see her in person. He hoped it would make a difference. She wasn’t expecting him, but he thought it would be a good surprise.
He finally opened the door, the music blasting him, and he stepped into the clouds of music and smoke, flashing colored lights and a loud, jamming crowd. A young guy just inside the door with foiled hair and two metal hands (real or fake?) put one of his hands up, stopping him. He leaned forward, shouted into Carlucci’s ear.
“You sure you want in here, old man?”
Carlucci nodded, and the guy shrugged. “Ten bucks. For the band.”
Carlucci dug a crumpled wad of money out of his pocket and picked out two fives, handing them to the guy. The guy nodded, slapped Carlucci on the shoulder, and said, “Have a good time, old man.”
Old man. Yeah. To the guy, who wasn’t much more than a kid, Carlucci was old.
He could barely see the band at the other end of the long, narrow room, his view obstructed by the smoke, people at the raised tables, other people walking around or dancing with their hands in the air, and the half dozen blackened wood ceiling supports. Some of the smoke was illegal, he could smell that. There, he caught a glimpse of Paula, pounding at her guitar, wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans, screaming into the microphone. He couldn’t make out a single word.
There weren’t any vacant seats at the bar, and all the tables were full, so he worked his way to the side wall, found a spot to lean against between a woman in a crash suit and a guy in silver-strips who must have been close to seven feet tall. The smells in the place made him feel good, reminded him of the clubs he’d played in with the Po-Leece Blues Band. A different crowd, different sound, definitely, but something the same—people pressed in together, drinking and smoking, having a good time: there for the music.
A waitress in black T-shirt, cutoffs, and heavy leather boots stopped by, and he ordered a draft. She said something back, the name of the beer, probably, and he shrugged, nodded.
Carlucci had a good view of the band from where he stood, right between two of the wooden posts. Drummer, lead guitar, and Paula on bass and vocals. Loud and fast, a lot louder and faster than he liked, but the energy was fine; he could feel that, he liked that part of it. And the bass pounding through the floor and wall, into his bones.
The waitress came back with his beer, sooner than he had expected; the beer a lot bigger, too, jumbo pint glass. He paid her, and she left. Carlucci looked back at the stage, and saw that Paula had caught sight of him. She was back from the mike, a break in the vocals, and she stared at him, hand banging away at the strings. Then she smiled, nodding once, the smile getting broader, and he knew it was okay. He smiled back at her and put up his hand, feeling kind of stupid. Like an old man.
He saw Paula lean over to say something in the guitarist’s ear, and the guitarist nodded. Carlucci drank from his beer and tried to relax, settle into the music. He was still a little nervous.
The Black Angels played one more song, then Paula announced they’d be taking a short break. The quiet was a relief to Carlucci. There was still music playing over the sound system and people talking all around him, but it was quiet to him, the volume turned way down. Paula stepped off the stage and worked her way through the tables and chairs until she stood right in front of him, smiling. Carlucci couldn’t help smiling back. She looked terrific—healthy sweat, good color in her face.
“It’s good to see you,” Paula said. “A hell of a surprise, but a good one.”
“I’m glad to see you, too.”
She winced. “Phone conversations have been kind of crappy, haven’t they?”
Carlucci nodded, shrugged. He held up his beer. “Want some?”
“Love some.” She took the glass from him and drank half of what was left. “Man, that’s good.”
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Better. Every day better, I guess. Playing again helps. Helps a lot.”
“I can see that. You look great.”
She smiled. “Yeah, it does that for me.”
“How about other things?”
Paula shrugged, the smile fading. “Still lots of different kinds of pain. But it’s okay. That’s getting better, too. You?”
“All right. I thought for a while I might be forced to retire, but it’s all working out.”
McCuller had taken ‘voluntary’ retirement—apparently New Hong Kong and Vaughn had been unhappy with the way he’d appeared in Tremaine’s story. Vaughn was still Chief, but accommodation had been reached—there were no hypocritical citations, but Carlucci, Hong, LaPlace, even Santos and Weathers, were all in good shape. Everything was back to what passed for normal.
“Good,” Paula said. She took another long drink from the beer. “That other stuff, though. Politicians making a lot of noise about New Hong Kong, but it doesn’t look like much is really going to change, is it?”
Carlucci shook his head. “Not really. Closer inspections of shipments to New Hong Kong for a while, a lot of hand-waving about medical ethics, but that’s about it. More money will shift around, and the bodies will start shipping again. Alive and dead. Like you said, lots of noise, but after a while it’ll be pretty much the same again.”
“About right,” Paula said. “The fucking politicians want to have a crack at eternal life themselves.”
“Yes. And the reality is, there isn’t a hell of a lot they can do about New Hong Kong, anyway. Unless they want to try to blow them right out of the sky.”
Paula smiled. “It’s an idea.”
“Yeah, ideas everywhere.”
“I guess I was hoping Tremaine’s story might change things a little more.”
“I don’t think Tremaine thought much would change,” Carlucci said. “He said as much, really, when I talked to him the last time. He said he just wanted the truth to be known. Anything more than that would be one hell of a bonus.”
“That sounds about right.”
She took one more drink of the beer, then handed it back to him. They didn’t talk for a bit, Carlucci trying to gear up to ask her about Kashen.
“Is it true?” he finally asked. “That the Saints put the mayor on trial?”
Paula looked at him for a few moments without saying anything, then nodded. “Yes, it’s true.”
“What happened?”
“He survived. If you could call it that.” She sighed heavily, then went on. “I’ve seen him. He’s a wreck. He’s being cared for by an old woman and a young boy who think he’s a holy man.” Paula shook her head. “He has no idea who he is.”
“Was Mixer a part of it?” Carlucci asked.
“Of course. He’s one of them, now.”
“A Saint.”
“Yeah, a Saint.” Paula shrugged. “It might be good. For Mixer and for the Saints.”
Now was the time, Carlucci thought. He’d been holding it back, like holding back a treat, except she had no idea it was coming.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said. “The main reason I came here tonight. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”
“What?” She didn’t seem to know whether to be eager or afraid.
“A message. I thought you’d want it right away.”
He reached into his back pocket and took out the small, folded piece of paper, handed it to her. She opened it carefully, then looked at it. A sh
ort message. She read it silently, but he knew what it said. He’d had to copy it out himself:
Paula,
Settled in, everything’s fine. Miss you.
Wish you were here.
Love,
Ian
Carlucci watched her expression change, soften, watched just the hint of a smile appear.
“Love?” he said.
Paula looked up at him, smile widening. “Could be. I may find out someday.” She folded the paper and put it in her jeans pocket. “Thanks.”
Someone called her name from the stage and Paula turned. The guitarist was waving at her.
“Break’s over,” Paula said. “You going to stick around for the next set?”
Carlucci shook his head, but smiled. “Not my kind of music. I just wanted to get that to you. I just wanted to see you.”
“Thanks again.” She stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. “I’ve gotta go. Stay in touch.”
“I’ll have to.”
“Yeah.” Grinning now. “Bye, Frank Carlucci.”
“Goodbye, Paula Asgard.”
She turned and walked back toward the stage. Carlucci finished the beer, then set the empty glass on the nearest table, which was already half-covered with empty bottles and glasses. He looked back once more at the stage, and Paula, bass strapped on, waved to him. Carlucci waved back, then headed for the door.
At the entrance, the guy with the foiled hair and metal hands grinned. “Too much for you, old man?”
“Yeah,” Carlucci said, laughing. “Too much.”
He pushed open the door, feeling better than he had in days, and stepped out into the night.
Ace Books by Richard Paul Russo
DESTROYING ANGEL
CARLUCCI’S EDGE
copyright
CARLUCCI’S EDGE—RICHARD PAUL RUSSO
ACE BOOKS. NEW YORK
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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