by Steve Liszka
A line of torches ran down either side of the Strip, acting like ancient street lights for customers to see the pasty-looking girls who stood outside the bars. They were busy tempting the punters in with tales of the filth (they mean it in a positive way), that was taking place inside. On the opposite side of the street, a group of around twenty men or more were tightly huddled together with their backs to him. Judging from the high-pitch wails that were already dissolving into pathetic yelps, the dogfight they were betting on was about to reach its climax.
Ignoring the death-cries, Taylor commenced his stroll down the filthy street. As he walked, he was able to distinguish between the yells of delight or sometimes disgust, coming from inside the various bars. He briefly had to stop in his tracks when a middle aged man in an expensive suit burst from one of them, dragging a young girl behind him. She was so drugged up she could barely walk, and every time he yanked at her arm, her ankle turned painfully on her too-high heels. After nearly running into him, the man muffled a grunt of apology before pulling the girl towards his chauffeur-driven car. The driver was already revving his engine in anticipation of the pair’s arrival.
Before he could continue his journey, a hand on his arm halted Taylor in his tracks.
“Hey big boy,” the woman holding him was dressed in the flimsiest of underwear, which luckily for her, was sufficient clothing for the balmy night.
“You looking for some action,” her smile revealed a mouth of stained and missing teeth, “you can do whatever you like to me, I don’t give a fuck.”
The scars on her face and body were testament that she was telling the truth.
Taylor shook his head, “No thanks.”
As he tried to walk off, the girl tugged at his arm again, “You want a boy then? Gimme some food vouchers and I’ll introduce you to my friend. He’ll let you fuck his brains out for a pack of smokes.”
“It’s tempting,” Taylor said, trying not to smile, “but I’m here on business.”
He shrugged and offered her a smile, “Maybe next time eh?”
The woman pushed his arm away like it was he who had grabbed her, “You fucking SecForce faggots are all the same.”
When he had got halfway down the Strip, he stopped outside a bar that looked no different from the others, except that instead of the hand-painted signs that displayed names such as The Money Shot or Pussycats, this one had a green neon display with Ringo’s written on it. Every few seconds the letter ‘o’ would blink off before forcing itself back to life again. Taylor nodded at the doorman and stepped into the bar.
As soon as he walked into the room that looked much larger from the inside, he was hit by the smell of sex and alcohol entwined. Directly in front of him was a small stage where a bored young girl was sitting on a chair with her legs wide open. A chubby woman who could have been her grandmother probed between the girl’s legs with her tongue as a skinny younger man held the older women’s hips, penetrating her from behind with long, lazy strokes. It looked like this was not the first time they had performed the act that day.
To his left was a small bar where the man behind it had given up on serving the absent customers and was thumbing through the pages of a worn book. There were only a dozen or so people scattered around the place and apart from one man who wore a suit and another the overalls of a mechanic, they all looked to be from the Old-Town.
Most of these men were at the age where they should have been sent to the production centres, and unlike Ben and the other members of the Old Guard they had no reason for not being there. The price for their freedom (and the drinks they were now consuming), was to give their loyalty to the bar owners, the closest thing the Old-Town had to a ruling class.
For them, it was favours that paid for things on the Strip. They could get drinks, drugs and sex, as well as immunity from the production centres in exchange for giving their allegiances to a particular bar. For the owners, the sort of work they were involved in often demanded immediate action if their business was compromised, and it was the men whose glasses they continued to fill that would carry out such tasks. Sometimes the favours asked of them were bigger than others. Men had been known to give up their wives and children to the bar owners in order to keep their supply of booze coming in. Taylor and his men had raided these places numerous times but never found anyone they could cart off to the centres. The owners made sure they bribed enough SecForce officials so that they would always know when the raids would take place.
Knowing he would need a drink before he even started to look for his potential snitch, he made his way to the bar. Before he had time to get annoyed at the man who refused to look up from his book, he became aware of someone standing just a little too close to him.
Taylor averted his attention to the much smaller man who looked vaguely Japanese in appearance. Even though it could be seen from his follicles that the man could still grow a thick head of hair if he wished, he had chosen to shave it as close as possible. His nose was long and curved, making Taylor think of a vulture or similar bird of prey. He had no doubt that the person staring at him was a fighter.
Without speaking, the man motioned his head towards an area over his shoulder. Taylor looked over and saw a strange site awaiting him. The man sitting at the table was wearing a long coat with an oversized hood pulled over his head. Underneath the hood he could just make out that the man was wearing some sort of scarf that wrapped around both the lower and upper parts of his face, leaving only the eyes and bridge of his nose on display. He looked like a cross between a desert nomad and a monk.
As Taylor examined him from a distance, the man lifted his drink as if offering a toast. The barman thrust a small glass of muddy-coloured liquid into his hand. Ignoring its contents, he knocked the drink back before slamming the glass on the bar.
“Fill her up,” he said without taking his eyes off his newest friend.
When he got closer to the table, Taylor could see the reason for the hood and scarf. Despite his disguise, the man could not hide the burns that consumed his face. Even his eyelids had not escaped injury, with the skin hanging off them in such a way it looked like he had a constant stream of tears flowing from his eyes. Such injuries were not uncommon in a place that a decade ago had spent weeks being firebombed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the man said, “and you’re right, I’m not Ringo.”
Taylor seated himself on the opposite side of the table as the Japanese man pulled up a chair next to his employer. Usually bodyguards were big guys; it was a visual thing more than anything else. The sight of a much larger man was normally sufficient to stop people from doing anything stupid, but to have a small bodyguard; well that was almost inviting trouble. The guy must have been good. Taylor only hoped that at some time he’d get the chance to find out. He’d taken an instant dislike to the man who was trying to burn holes in him with his stare.
The scarred man waited in silence for some time before finally speaking. He seemed to be evaluating Taylor, making him feel strangely ill at ease.
“I have owned this bar for the past three months and frankly the place gives me a headache,” he said, nodding to the threesome onstage.
“But I let them carry on their acts of vulgarity as it means I get to hear about everything that goes on in the Old-Town. Information, as I’m sure you know, is priceless.”
Even though the scarf muffled his voice, the man was able to speak with distinction.
“Ringo negotiated hard but in the end we came to an amicable deal on the bar.”
Taylor couldn’t see his mouth but he was sure he was smiling.
“Did you know him, Ringo I mean?”
Taylor shrugged, “We crossed paths a few times.”
“Charming man, wouldn’t you agree…. Of course the best thing about him was his name, the perfect moniker for a bar. My name on the other hand is Jacob and that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, if you’ll excuse the pun. That’s why I’ve decided to keep things as they a
re.”
Taylor felt Jacob’s smile burning through his disguise once more, “I’m sure Ringo wouldn’t mind.”
“You said you had some information about the Shepherd,” Taylor said, wanting to get out of the place as quickly as possible.
Jacob leant back in his chair, “Ah yes, the Shepherd, another fine fellow.”
As he waited for the man to continue, Taylor threw his second drink back as fast as the first,
“Any chance of getting a bottle over here?”
Jacob looked to his smaller companion who still hadn’t taken his eyes off the man seated opposite him.
“Be a good man Christopher, and get Taylor a bottle from the bar.”
Christopher looked at the scarred man then back at Taylor until Jacob rested his hand on his charge’s shoulder, revealing the severity of his burnt arms.
“Don’t worry, he’s not going to try and hurt me,” he looked to Taylor, “are you?”
“That depends on whether you’re wasting my time or not.”
Jacob chuckled before shooing the man off with a flick of his wrist like he was half-heartedly trying to swat a fly. Reluctantly, Christopher prised himself away from his chair, waiting until the last second before he turned his gaze away.
Taylor smiled, “Friendly guy.”
“I have to apologise for Christopher’s rudeness but he takes his job very seriously.”
“I’m sure he does, looking after a crime-lord is a very serious business.”
Jacob laughed, “You don’t like me do you?”
“I don’t like any of you bar owners.” Taylor looked up at the stage, “the way you treat-”
“Are you really telling me that’s any worse than what your employers do?” Jacob interrupted, “The only difference between us is our proximity to the people we exploit. At least I don’t hide behind a wall and pretend to not see the results of my actions… Anyway,” his voice softened, “we’re not here to talk semantics, I’ve got some information for you that I’m sure will be very profitable to us both. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets you a promotion.”
Taylor went for his glass, then realised it was dry, “That’s not why I’m here.”
Underneath his veil, Taylor could see Jacob’s eyes widen, “Really, then why did you come?”
He searched his glass once more, but still found it empty. How long did it take to get a goddamn bottle he wondered?
Jacob leaned forward, his voice dropping in volume, “He interests you doesn’t he? The Shepherd, I mean. I must admit to finding the idea of the man fascinating myself.”
“Fascinating, but bad for business right?” Taylor’s voice had returned.
“Let’s just say if he gets what he wants, it will hurt you and everyone you know just as much as it hurts my little enterprise.”
“The Shepherd’s the least of your problems.” Taylor said, “the way I see it, once the wall is complete and you’re cut off from your customers, your business will quickly go to shit all on its own.”
Even though it looked like it pained him, Jacob gave a hearty laugh, “Perhaps I was wrong about you Taylor, I never had you down as being naïve. Do you really think they’ll stop coming here just because of the wall? The people who matter will have no problem getting out when they need to. All the wall is going to do is increase demand and that can only be a good thing for my business.”
Before he could reply, Christopher came back to the table, announcing his return by slamming the bottle down in front of him. Splashes of the drink flew up into Taylor’s face, burning his eyes. Christopher sat down with a broad smile, watching as he wiped away the liquid.
“Tell me something,” he waited until Christopher was settled before he spoke, “does your pet monkey speak or does he just fetch and carry things for you?”
From his seated position, Christopher lunged towards Taylor who had already grabbed the bottle and safely positioned himself well out of range,
“You fuckin’ piece of shit,” he growled.
Taylor winked at him, “Oh I see, just the real basics.”
“Christopher!”
Jacob swung round to face Christopher, and in an instant the smaller man had fallen quiet, his eyes fixed on the floor,
“Go to the bar, now!”
The man grudgingly obeyed his orders with a speed that suggested he wanted to anger his boss no longer. When the two men were alone again, Jacob continued to speak,
“A small co-operative has been set up in Saint Catherine’s School on the outskirts. Do you know the place?”
Taylor nodded.
“The people there have done a good job of keeping the place quiet. As far as I know SecForce are unaware of its existence.”
Jacob was right; the co-operatives were classed as the most serious of all infringements in the Old-Town. Whenever one was discovered, it was destroyed instantly and its residents sent straight to the production centres if they weren’t killed in the raid.
“According to my sources, this is where you’ll find the Shepherd. I believe you shouldn’t meet too much resistance, it’s mostly women and children living there.”
Taylor stared at the man’s permanently reddened eyes, “Women and children uh? I guess that will make me a real hero.”
Jacob shrugged, “I’ve given you the information. Do with it what you will.”
“The thing that’s bothering me,” Taylor said, “is why didn’t you just tell this to the SecForce officials yourself, I’m sure you know enough of them.”
“You see, I was right,” Jacob nodded, “you are a smart man. And you’re correct, I could have leaked this information myself but the fact is I need more friends like you. I’m looking at expanding my business interests and I need capable men to help me get rid of some of my rivals…”
“Let’s get something straight,” Taylor interrupted, “me and you will never be friends.”
“Think about it Taylor, you say you don’t like the bar owners, well this will be your chance to get rid of some of them.”
“And help make you number one scumbag, is that it?”
Jacob was too clever to let Taylor’s insults affect him.
“If there’s only me left, it’ll be much easier for you to police things, make sure I’m not exploiting the girls and boys who work for me. You may not want to believe this but I treat my people far better than the rest of the bar owners do. So in a way, if you help me you’ll actually be helping them too.”
Taylor laughed, “I’ve heard it all now, a pimp with a heart.”
Jacob leaned forward and very gently placed his hand on top of Taylor’s, his voice had suddenly become quiet and serious.
“Let’s put all this bravado aside for a minute, shall we? We both know this revolution is going to fail. Billy Nothing and his followers couldn’t change anything and neither will the Shepherd. Forget about them and try and think of yourself for once. The information I’m giving could be vital to you. Don’t waste it.”
Taylor looked down at his hand and almost recoiled from the sight of Jacob’s melted fingers. Without saying anything else, he slid his hand from the man’s grasp and got to his feet.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, “I’m an expert at looking after my own interests.”
As he walked towards the door, Taylor heard Jacob call after him,
“Just remember, if its not you who does this, it will be someone else.”
When he turned to face the exit of the bar, Christopher was now standing in front of him, blocking his path. Taylor gave him an amused grin.
“What do you want, shorty?”
Christopher took a step closer bringing the men within striking distance of each other.
“It’s not over between me and you,” he muttered.
Taylor’s smile grew broader, “Get real little man, there is no me and you.”
With Christopher still absorbing his words, Taylor shouldered his way past, spinning the smaller man to the side a
nd clearing the path ahead. When he stepped into the cool night air, he waited at the doorway just in case Christopher decided to follow him out. When it was evident no one was coming, he allowed himself a smile and headed back to the car. Arriving back at his vehicle he saw a shepherd’s crook had been clumsily drawn on the windscreen. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it had been painted in blood.
Chapter 15
It was late by the time he got back to his apartment. The monorail had stopped running hours before, so after returning the car to its owner, he’d had to walk across the City to get home. As soon as he shut the door, a wave of fatigue swept over him. Taylor found it hard to believe it was only that morning he had witnessed his old friend dealing out his brand of justice to the ferals. It felt like their meeting had taken place weeks ago.
The stuff he’d been drinking in Ringo’s had been far stronger than anything he could get his hands on in the City. It may have tasted like horse piss, but after barely half a bottle it had taken all his concentration just to drive back to the City without ending up in a ditch. The long walk home had only succeeded in pumping the shit coloured liquid through his veins and into his brain at an even more aggressive rate. Just to make sure his assessment of the grog’s strength was correct, he opened a bottle of whisky in order to undertake a more thorough comparison.
He sat on the sofa, flicking through the TV channels with no intention of watching any of them, when his eyelids assumed the weight of lead. The gentle nodding of his head as his eyes began to close, gathered momentum until his chin slumped onto his chest and sleep overtook him. He had only been out for what felt like a matter of seconds, when a loud banging at the door propelled him back into the world with a level of alertness that unnerved him.
Leaping to his feet, and fearing someone had followed him back from the Old-Town, his first instinct was to go for his gun. He didn’t normally carry his piece in the City, but he would have been a fool to go to the Strip without being appropriately prepared. As the door banged again in loud rapid knocks, he rejected the idea. He hadn’t done anything wrong for Christ sake; it wasn’t unusual for citizens to do what he had done. In spite of this knowledge, he still couldn’t figure out who would be visiting him at this hour of the morning.
