Gangbangers have shared secrets with me like I'm one of their brothers moments before I've slid a blade into their guts, or they've confessed that they think they've got a rat in the house and I've had to act shocked and point the finger of suspicion elsewhere, while at the same time fitting a silencer when their backs are turned. I'm not always proud of the things I've done to protect myself, or the methods I've employed to shake down informants. There are a few pimps and stookie dealers still walking the streets (or rather, limping) nursing broken fingers or cracked kneecaps that have never properly healed.
My light chemical dependency in fact grew out of a need to not dwell on my past. A life built on betrayals is not always easy to live with. My sleep used to be haunted by the faces of those I'd pushed under a zoom train, or battered to death in a dark alley, or dropped a few hundred feet from a hovercar. My desire to keep the truth at a distance, even from myself, meant a not-insubstantial quantity of narcotics was required. The zizz helps me create a barrier between the street player and the lawman inside, struggling to stay in control.
Dansky doesn't open his eyes as I stand over him. Seems hard to imagine that this guy with his head propped on pillows, hands resting on his chest like he's sleeping the sleep of the just, had the drop on me only twelve hours ago. I was a second away from having a slug drilled into my skull by this creep, and the slenderest of margins by which I escaped still gives me heart palpitations. I'm drokking burning to drive my fist into his slack-jawed, slumbering face, but it's too public. I opt instead to accidentally-on-purpose bring my elbow swiftly down on his bandaged crotch, while at the same time trying to look as nonchalant as possible as I perch myself on the edge of the bed.
"Motherdrokker!" he screams, folding up, his hands clutching at his wound. "Piece of drokkin' shit!"
"Oops. Did that hurt?" I ask, all mock-innocence.
"I'll kill you, you drokkin' asshole," Jonny snarls, reaching for me, then notices the commotion has unsurprisingly brought the attention of the room onto his corner of it. The guards look over, shouldering their rifles, and he slowly relaxes, easing himself back onto the sheets, grimacing as he rides out the waves of pain ebbing from between his legs.
A med-droid trundles across. "What's all the fuss?"
"Sorry, doc," I say. "I think I sat on a sore bit."
"Get this drokkin' bastard out of here," Jonny spits out through gritted teeth, eyes watering. "Spugger wants to kill me."
"Remarkable powers of intuition," I reply, "but that would be against the Law." I reach into my pocket and show the robot my name badge. "Pete Trager, Wally Squad. I'm hoping Citizen Dansky here is going to help me with my current investigation."
The droid peers at my ID, seemingly surprised - if it's possible for a mechanoid to show surprise - that I'm a Judge. A brief flash of self-realisation tells me that I probably look unkempt and dishevelled, and could do with a couple of hours in a sleep machine and a fresh change of clothes. But it merely clicks its eyes up from the badge to my face and nods. "OK. But keep it quiet. I've got sick people here."
"No kidding," I say, motioning to the four hundred pound fattie wheezing and spluttering in the next bed. "Jimmy the Badyear Blimp there murdered three hundred and sixty-five citizens before they caught him." I smile graciously. "Don't worry, doc, I'll try to keep this short." The droid appears satisfied and rattles away, and I turn back to Jonny. "But when it comes to real sickos, you Danskys are in a class of your own."
"Drokk you," he breathes.
"Or should I say Dansky singular, since your beloved brother is at this moment rumbling up the Resyk meg-way to become the ingredients of a grot pot."
Anger flares in his eyes, but he's not dumb. He knows I'm provoking him and he can't do anything but lose in this situation. He looks at me with contempt. "What do you want, Trager? I've got nothin' to say to you."
"Well, on a purely selfish level, I'm just enjoying seeing you suffer." I tap his leg gently and he visibly flinches. "I bet that smarts, don't it? Do they reckon you can still have kids?"
He doesn't reply.
"Ah, well, probably for the best. You rid the world of one Dansky, the last thing you need is more of the shit-eating simps filling up the city. Shame somebody didn't think of doing the same to your daddy thirty years ago."
He takes this on board before saying, "Y'know something, Trager? My only regret is that I hesitated before blowin' your drokkin' head off. You're gonna have to live with the fact you're only breathin' because of that, because of a millisecond of grace. Your ass belongs to me. Your life stood on the edge and it coulda swung either way."
"Does it all the time, pal. You ain't the first," I say dismissively. "But enough with the pleasantries, I wanna know about these and the buyer you had lined up." I pull from my small knapsack the bundle that I'd snagged on Talón's yacht.
Opening it up, there's a clink of metal on metal as I spread the contents across his bed. The strange and troubling array of devices look like they've come straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. There are five pieces in total, some with more obvious applications than others. The thumbscrews are the most self-evident, a set of mini-cuffs forged from black iron. The largest instrument is some kind of skullcap, with a tightening nut at the top and clamps around the neck area. A nasty serrated blade is affixed at throat height, presumably to slice open the victim's jugular if they were to attempt to twist their head away from whatever the torturer was about to do.
Next to that is a complicated, multi-jointed affair with a tight spring at its centre and several needle-sharp barbs jutting out at different angles. So far I've been afraid to touch it, for fear of tripping a catch and having it snap shut on my hand. It reminds me of a portable man-trap. The last two items are all the more bizarre for their immediate lack of purpose: a curved, spoon-like implement that wouldn't seem out of place in someone's kitchen, and a metallic truncheon, not much more than a foot long, with a hook at one end. Despite their innocence at first glance, it isn't difficult to envision an imaginative psycho getting a fair bit of mileage out of the pair of them.
Although the pieces are clearly antiques, they've been expertly looked after by somebody who knew what they were doing. My guess is that Cuidad Barranquilla Justice Department has an entire section of its armoury devoted to shit like this, and probably doesn't have any qualms about using them on suspects.
Jonny's attempt at acting cool fails miserably as his eyes give away his fear almost instantly. He tries to look at the instruments of torture as if it's the first time he's seen them, but recognition is broadcast all over his face.
"How many times have you sold stuff like this, Jonny?"
He says nothing, turning his head away as if to refuse to acknowledge their existence.
"Talk to me, Jonny," I persist. "Who have you been selling them to?"
"Drokk you," he replies, but there's a catch in his throat and his response lacks venom. He sounds afraid. "I-I don't have to talk to you." He looks at me at last. "Why the drokk should I help you, pig?"
I let that one slide. "I ain't gonna lie to you, Jonny. Once you're out of here, you're going to an iso-cube for the rest of your natural life. There's nothing I can do about that-"
"Seeing as you're the spugger who put me in here in the first place!"
Typical perp self-pity. Always somebody else's fault. "But talk to me, give me a name, and I'll see what I can do to make it easier for you. Maybe even decrease your sentence. You could be out in, say, twenty years. You don't wanna die in jail, do you, Jonny?"
The long, hard road of the rest of his life hits him at that moment. I can see him deflating before me, all the piss and vinegar draining out of him as he realises he'll never taste freedom again. He's weighing up the choice that all criminals have to make at some point in their lives: should he rat out a colleague to save himself, or go to his grave a principled idiot? It doesn't usually take the average creep long to make the decision - no honour among thieves, yadda, yadda, yadda - but J
onny seems surprisingly tormented. Perhaps I underestimated just how much he hates us Judges.
"You... you don't understand," he begins, nervously glancing at the black pieces of metal lying only a couple of feet away. "They'll kill me. They're drokkin' dangerous..."
"Who are?" I have to admit his fear's starting to unsettle me. "They're not going to get you while you're in custody, if that's what you're afraid of. You're safe here."
He doesn't look like he believes me. "I ain't no snitch," he says loudly, as if to mostly convince himself.
"Jonny, if your brother was alive and in your place, do you think he'd be making it this hard on himself? He was always the one setting up the deals, wasn't he? He was the one with the foresight. Now, if he was presented with an offer like this, don't you think he'd jump at the chance to grab something for himself from this mess? You're on your own now, Jonny. Can't rely on your brother for back-up. You gotta make your own decision."
The mention of Brett makes his eyes leak, and he says his sibling's name in a tiny whisper. I almost feel sorry for him.
"Do the right thing. Give me a name, and then maybe one day you'll be able to raise a glass to his memory as a free man."
He screws his eyes up tight and I think he's going to continue stalling me, but after a moment's silence his head drops forward and he says quietly: "Conrad."
"Conrad? That's the buyer?"
He nods. "That's the only name I know. That's all he calls himself."
Sounds like a cover. "And how do I get in touch with him?"
Jonny runs trembling hands over his face. "The number... it's unlisted. Four-double-two-three-six-eight. I don't know where he's based. We speak to him or one of his men and just arrange a meet. Usually at Tommy's."
"The bar on Bleeker?"
He nods again.
"What does Conrad look like?"
He shrugs. "He's a businessman, he ain't a player. Smart, expensive suits, neat haircut. He's very... sure of himself."
"So why are you so scared of him, Jonny?"
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. "He's powerful. And we've heard what he's capable of."
I stand up and gather together the torture devices into the bundle and put it back into my knapsack. "You made the right decision, Jonny."
"So you'll talk to them, right?" he says as I start to walk away, gesturing towards the guards standing sentry at the door. "You'll let them know I was willing to help? You'll cut a deal?"
"I'll do my best," I reply, giving him a short wave. Then, as I pass one of the Judge-Wardens, I mutter under my breath "Dansky, in the far bed. He's planning on busting out and taking hostages. Bring him down hard."
I step out into the corridor, smiling, and slightly disappointed that I'm going to miss the fireworks.
Ten minutes later, I'm standing at a public phone, punching in the number. It rings a couple of times before a man's voice answers "Yeah?"
"Speak to Conrad?"
"Who is this?"
"A friend. Is Conrad there?"
"He's busy. Gimme a message an' I'll pass it on."
"Tell him I got his antiques, from south of the border."
The phone goes dead, the sudden silence making me jolt. I replace the receiver, unsure whether I'd said something wrong, though Jonny mentioned nothing about any kind of password. Frustration gnaws at me. This number's my only lead and if I've blown it, then the investigation will grind to a halt. As I'm mulling over the possibility of running a trace on the number, seeing if I can narrow it down to a sector - though I can imagine it being rerouted through several different exchanges, leading me on a phantom search before I finally find myself chasing my own tail - the phone rings. I snatch it up.
"Yeah?"
"Who are you?" A different male voice this time. More cultured. My immediate guess is that this is the enigmatic Conrad.
There's no reason to lie. "My name's Pete Trager." I find it easier if I keep my identities to a minimum as it lessens the chance of me slipping up by getting my assumed monikers mixed up. There's also a veracity to people's voices when they speak their own name, a confidence that's notably missing whenever anybody tries to pass off an alias. "I've worked with our mutual acquaintances, the Dansky brothers."
"So perhaps you can tell me why I'm talking to you and not them?"
"Truth of the matter is, they've been the victims of a small hostile takeover. Our friends in Banana City, they saw my organisation was much more efficient at trafficking certain merchandise, and decided to take their business elsewhere."
"Where did you get this number, Mr Trager?"
"The Danskys passed over all their contacts, and I'm more than happy to carry on doing their business with you. In fact, you'll find my prices are extremely reasonable. They were going to sell what I've got for you for eight thou, but-"
"Please." The smooth voice raises a notch. "I do not wish to discuss consumables over the phone, no matter how secure this line is. Right now, the most pertinent matter is why I should trust you."
"Why should you indeed? After all, I'm just a voice in your ear, right? You need verification, somebody to vouch for me." Uh-oh, I'm gonna have to wing this one. "I'm sure Talón will speak highly of me."
A pause. "You have met Frederica Talón?"
"Sure. You could say we both hit it off. And I'm now her man in Mega-City; all her business goes through me." I cross my fingers and take a leap of faith. "You want me to fix it so she gets in touch with you, lets you know I'm on the level?"
Another beat of silence. I get the impression he wants to avoid contact with his Banana City supplier; the least amount of guilty associates the better. Plus he's probably frightened of fraternising with an honest-to-grud gangbanger. This Conrad seems to be one of those high-flyers who thinks he's above the scum that do his dirty work. "That... that will not be necessary. Senorita Talón's judgement is usually faultless over whom she chooses to deal with."
"Usual place, then?"
"Tommy's at ten. I look forward to meeting you, Mr Trager." He clicks off.
I slam down the receiver in triumph. Oh, Petey-boy, you are sooooooo cool!
Tommy's has a certain rep within Justice Department for being a perp-magnet. The joint's namesake was murdered over ten years ago after an extremely competitive game of shuggy, each limb discovered in a different corner pocket, the cue ball placed in his mouth. Despite undergoing several ownership changes and varying managers, it can't seem to shake off attracting all sorts of undesirables. This might be something to do with its location, nestled as it is on Bleeker Street beneath the flyover of a north-west meg-way, like the building itself is trying to escape detection.
Fat chance. PSU had at least one camera trained on the area almost permanently, sure to catch a few wanted felons passing through. One thing about crims, whether they're smart or dumb, ruthless young Turks or seasoned old lags, they're reliable creatures of habit. No matter what they've done, no matter how many times their mugshot might've been flashed up on every Tri-D set in the sector, they can't seem to stop frequenting the same circles. Dogs returning to their own vomit and all that. I suppose by fostering this sense of community, creating an entirely separate level of society within the city, they reason it makes Judges' attempts to infiltrate it all the more difficult. Poor creeps haven't reckoned just how far the tentacles of law enforcement have already breached their extended family.
I arrive early and case the joint, feeling that organised crime could be reduced significantly just by bulldozing the drokking place. Like its patrons, the bar is squat and ugly, its walls blackened by the exhaust fumes of countless vehicles thundering overhead. The neon sign probably breathed its last back when Cal was in charge and nobody has bothered to give it a refit. The line of hoverbikes racked outside look slightly at odds with the grungy exterior; polished and gleaming, they're the status symbols of the local Harvey Keitel Wideboys.
It seems strange that somebody as evidently high-rolling as this Conrad guy should fre
quent a dive like this. Surely he would stand out like the proverbial mutant at the school disco? Can't see him cutting much ice with the regulars, unless, of course, they are aware of what he's up to... Jonny knew his rep and it almost scared him to silence.
The moment I enter the joint I can feel hostile eyes upon me. Years on the streets have enabled me to exude the necessary aura of menace and unpredictability that you'd expect from a Mega-City perp, but it doesn't stop my presence arousing the creeps' innate feelings of suspicion. Rather than attempting to avoid their gaze, I ride it out by striding up to the bar and ordering a drink, then turn to survey the room. The place is not that crowded, but the clientele have managed to fill it all the same. The Wideboys, sat around a corner table, live up to their name by being huge, hairy motherdrokkers that look like they could snap you in two with a flick of their wrists. Beside me, a couple of grizzled slabheads burnt out on steroids with arms like sides of beef are resting their enormous torsos against the bar.
Although the room doesn't exactly go silent, I can see glances being constantly thrown in my direction, weighing me up, and I give them the stare back, hoping I look mean enough not to tangle with. The strategy seems to work as the threat of violence drops to a low-lying ebb, and they seem satisfied that I'm not the Law. The barman brings me my beer, looking like he'd be happier wrestling Kleggs. He bangs the bottle down with his huge fist and silently takes my creds, clearly disgruntled that I've mistaken this for some kind of public house where anyone can just breeze in.
The Final Cut Page 10
