Kop

by Hammond, Warren

“Kapasi was dealing opium and running games in the Army. He used the profits to buy Zorno. That has to be it. Maybe he sold the mystery POWs back to the warlords. That might net him enough money.”

  Pieces were falling into place. I tried to mentally poke holes in her reasoning, but the more I poked, the more her theory made sense. But it had to be the mayor that bought Zorno. Paul needed it to be the mayor.

  Maggie asked, “Can we get in to see Kapasi?”

  “Not yet. Paul’s trying to get the mils to let us in to see him. He’ll tell us when he gets through.”

  Maggie nodded.

  Zorno came out and tromped in our direction. I sank down as far as I could with this creaky old body. I felt his shadow crawl over me as he passed by.

  Maggie waited impatiently for ten seconds and stalked out after him. I immediately rang her up. I set it up as a hologram-free phone connection.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” she said.

  “Okay, Maggie. I’ll be just a step behind you.”

  I U-turned onto the street and crept up behind her. Where is he? Don’t worry about him…just keep your eyes on Maggie. Maggie had to double-time to keep up with him. Her shirt was instantly perspiration-stained under the arms and down the center of the back.

  A flyer roared overhead. Zorno paused to watch, and Maggie ducked into a shop in case he looked back. I pulled to the side, letting traffic roll by. The flyer buzzed the rooftops. Offworld passengers were sure to have their heads pressed against the glass, looking down at us savages. It was painted camouflage style, as if that thing could ever blend into the surroundings. There were at least a dozen offworld resorts on Lagarto, and one of their main attractions was a flyer ride out to the remote jungle for a monitor shoot. Offworld tourists would rough it in airconned tents while trappers let caged monitors loose right outside the tent flaps for them to pop with scattershot lase-rifles that couldn’t miss.

  The resorts were offworld owned and operated. This was our planet, yet Lagartans were relegated to cleaning the rooms and washing the dishes at cut-rate salaries. Paul never saw that one coming. He always thought Lagartans would be the main benefactors of increased tourism. It had never occurred to him that offworlders would develop their own resorts and keep millions of tourist dollars from entering the Lagartan economy. Zorno watched until the flyer dropped out of sight then renewed his fast-paced walk.

  Maggie turned into a vacant lot that kids used as a playground. I pulled over to the side and saw Zorno already on the far side of the lot. Damn, he’s heading for Floodbank. That neighborhood floated on pontoons—no cars. When the rainy season came, the Koba River flooded that area. It stayed underwater for three-fourths of the year. It was a large expanse of useless mud for the rest of the year.

  “Maggie, I’m going to have to ditch the car. I’ll follow on foot.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing.”

  I left the car curbside and hurried into the lot. Maggie was out of sight. I said, “I’m on foot. Where are you?”

  “I’m about to cross the canal bridge—the one by the church.”

  I jogged until she came back into view then slowed to a quick march as I tried to bring my breathing back under control. I closed the distance between us so I could keep her in sight once we started into Floodbank’s intricate system of makeshift walkways.

  Following the Lagartan economic collapse, the unemployment rate ran sixty percent, yet for years immigrants like my ancestors continued to arrive, victims of the incredibly slow speed of interstellar travel and communications. They arrived at the spaceport, received their papers, paid their citizenship fees, and were bussed to Tenttown. Here’s a tent with a little free space. You and your family will like it here. Disease and starvation took out a third of them.

  The Tenttowners desperately wanted land of their own to settle, but the Lagartan government claimed ownership over the whole damn planet. They’d sell off parcels of land to anybody who had the cash. Tenttowners had no money. Most arrived destitute, having spent everything they had on passage to Lagarto. Some fled upriver to the remote jungle and squatted, eventually coming under the control of the warlords. Many others moved to the Floodbank area of Koba. It was free. It flooded every year, so it wasn’t considered land—no point developing it.

  To build a Floodbank home, you’d start by lashing together some old brandy barrels or empty oil drums. Then steal some scrap wood from an abandoned factory and attach plank floors and walls. Then just top it off with a corrugated metal roof, making sure you stacked rocks on top to keep the wind from ripping it off. For indoor plumbing, just cut a hole in the floor and use the river as your toilet.

  They built these junkyard homes in the ankle-deep mud of the Floodbank using salvaged concrete blocks as anchors. When the rains came, their homes floated on the river water only to sink back into the mud in the dry season. Floodbank had grown over the years from a small collection of homes to a floating city in its own right. They had their own schools, brothels, churches, and bars—all tied together with a never-ending series of knotted ropes and cords.

  Zorno led us through the labyrinth of haphazardly connected structures. We were surrounded by the moan of ropes tug-of-warring against each other and the sharp cracks of buildings bumping into each other at the whim of the river currents. Maggie stopped and turned to look back my way.

  I hurried to catch up to her. “What is it?” I asked, afraid she might have lost him.

  “He went into that bar.” The place looked pretty dead, too early for all but the hard-core drinkers.

  “Did he see you?”

  “No way, he never looked back.”

  “Is he still in there? Can you see him?”

  “Yeah. That’s him sitting at the bar.”

  Now I saw him. Thankfully, his back was turned to us, so he couldn’t see us gawking through the window. We snagged a pair of stools at the end of an open-air fish counter that had a view of the bar. Hopefully, Zorno would stay put long enough for us to scarf down a bite—I was starving. I ordered mine fried on noodles. Maggie asked for hers steamed, but it came fried anyway.

  We kept an obsessive eye on Zorno as we ate. He downed brandies, one after another. People stayed clear of him; nobody sat within three stools of the guy. Even the bartender kept himself busy at the far end of the bar.

  The fish was greasy-wet, the noodles soggy-wet, but I was hungry enough that it didn’t matter. I leaned over until my chin almost touched the bowl. I spooned it up and in as fast as I could with my left; didn’t spill much that way. I left nothing but a pool of oil on the bottom. Maggie just picked at hers.

  The sun had dropped. Cool evening air lured throngs of people out onto the Floodbank walkways. The fish counter creaked and rocked to the footfalls of customers and passersby. The cook scrambled to keep up with the orders. His grease-stained T-shirt dripped with sweat as he toiled over the deep fryers, stopping only to give Maggie and me nasty looks for hanging around and nursing our drinks, taking up two valuable seats.

  Inside the bar, the bartender passed Zorno his check. After paying up, he was back on the move. I downed the rest of my soda and dropped a few bills on the counter.

  Maggie said, “Same plan?”

  “Yeah. You follow him, and I’ll follow you.”

  sixteen

  MAGGIE and I trailed behind like a piece of loose fishing line hooked in the fish’s mouth. We snaked our way back toward the riverbank. At times, I could see Zorno’s sturdy build in the distance ahead, but mostly, I just eyed Maggie’s sweat-soaked back.

  We were near the edge now. The walks were wider and more solid. If not for the slight sway, you wouldn’t know you were actually on the water. Maggie talked in my ear, “I’m on the street now…. He’s taking a cab. Hurry up, Juno. He’s taking a cab.”

  I caught up quickly—I hadn’t been far behind. We were on land now. The two of us made for the line of cabs that waited at the entrance to Floodbank. There was no way to get back to my car so Ma
ggie crawled into the back of an empty taxi while I hopped in the passenger seat. Zorno was haggling with the driver of the cab in front of this one, no more than a couple meters away. Where the hell is the driver? There was a crowd of people playing dice on the street. I made eye contact with a woman who didn’t seem too interested in the game. She nudged a player who was on all fours, waiting for the next throw. He looked over and saw us sitting in his car. He held up a finger to say, “Wait a minute.” Holy shit, hurry up!

  Zorno was getting in his cab. What the fuck is keeping our driver! He was arguing with a man holding a wad of cash, trying to settle his account. He kept pointing at us. The man counted out some bucks and passed it to our driver, who finally got in the car just as Zorno’s cab pulled off.

  I flashed my badge and pointed to Zorno’s cab.

  He whipped the cab out onto the street and set out in pursuit of Zorno.

  I told him, “Leave some space between us. We don’t want him to know we’re tailing.”

  “You gonna pay me for this or what? You ain’t gonna give me some bullshit about this being an emergency, are you?”

  “We’ll pay. Now shut up and drive or I’ll toss your ass out and drive it myself.”

  “That’s cool, man. If you’re paying, I’ll do whatever you say. You’re the boss.” I wanted to tell him to shut up again but held my tongue. Sometimes the best way to keep somebody from yapping was just to stay quiet.

  There was only one model of car built on Lagarto. Distinguishing between individual vehicles at night could be next to impossible. Luckily, Zorno’s cab had a driver who liked to stand out. His rear windshield was bordered by tacky running lights that cycled in a marching-ant pattern. We headed out from the city center into a residential area. I said as much to Maggie, who was slow to respond. I stole a look back at her. She looked wiped. She hadn’t gotten any sleep last night—spent the whole night with Pedro Vargas, going through mugs. “You can take a nap, Maggie. I’ll wake you up when we get somewhere.”

  “No, I’m okay. Just a little tired.” She opened her eyes wide and sat up in her seat.

  The traffic thinned, so the driver hung farther back, letting Zorno’s cab get way out in front of us. I sneaked another peek at Maggie, whose eyes were now closed. I decided to leave her alone and let her get some rest. We drove for a long time on the Cross Canal Road then turned into a dingy development of single-story apartments. The drive was overrun with branching weeds, candy wrappers caught in the cracks. We rode along slowly, people checking us out the whole way.

  The apartments were run down. The paint was peeling; pieces of cardboard were taped over window holes. Many apartment fronts had been converted into small stores or food counters. People were out enjoying the evening. Men were grouped into card games and drinking circles. Women worked the stores and food counters. Their kids were running loose with the chickens while lizards hung out on the rooftops, observing without moving.

  Zorno’s cab drove around to the back one of the apartment rows. He didn’t want anybody to know he was here. He got out of the cab and walked to the building. I couldn’t see which unit he went in; our view was blocked.

  He was here to meet somebody, and I had to find out who it was—could be the person who hired Zorno to snuff Lieutenant Vlotsky. I was afraid he might spot me if I got out too soon, so I waited a minute before I rushed up to a row of crooked mailboxes, leaving a sleeping Maggie in the backseat.

  Not all of the boxes had names written on, but I read off the ones that did. Scheid…Nunes…Rhyne…Vargas…OH SHIT! Vargas in unit 7! I sprinted to the back of the building, the weeds grabbing at my ankles. I struggled to pull my piece as I ran, finally managing to get it out of the holster as I sped up to the door of unit 7. How could I be so stupid? FUCK! The door was cracked open. I threw it wide and burst in.

  Zorno was on his knees, lopsided smile and bloody knife in his hand. Pedro Vargas fish-flopped around the floor with his hands to his throat, blood running through his fingers—too goddamned late.

  I was trying to keep my weapon leveled at Zorno, but it was wavering wildly—keep it cool, just relax.

  Zorno held onto the knife. He was studying my wobbling gun, measuring his chances.

  I held my piece with two hands but couldn’t control the tremors—RELAX! He got up, slip-sliding in Pedro’s blood. I started squeezing the trigger. My shots burned high and wide, my hand quaking so much that I wasn’t even close.

  He was charging now. I kept firing and missing. I stopped pumping out short bursts and held the trigger down creating one long burn that I swept side to side like a fire spraying garden hose. He was still coming.

  The frying sound of laser fire came from over my shoulder. Zorno buckled. Two more shots and the knife fell harmlessly from his hand as he collapsed.

  “You okay, Juno?”

  “Yeah, Maggie. Thanks.”

  “You have to do something about that hand.”

  The air smelled charred. The walls and furniture smoked with black singe marks. Zorno’s burnt flesh smelled well-done. Maggie kept a bead on him as she approached. She kicked away Zorno’s knife while I stood there, useless and fucking impotent. Pedro had stopped struggling, and Zorno wasn’t moving. Their blood mingled on the floor.

  Maggie looked at Pedro’s body trying to figure out who it was. “Oh god. Is that Pedro?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he know about Pedro?”

  I checked them both for a pulse—dead and dead. Then I searched Zorno’s pockets, pulling his bar bill out of his back pocket. There was a handwritten note on the backside.

  PEDRO VARGAS

  BUILDING 11, UNIT 7

  BAINE’S CANALSIDE DRIVE

  KOBA

  MALE

  AGE 15

  SAW YOUR HANDIWORK!

  Maggie paled. “Oh my god, Juno. It’s my fault. I filled out the witness report. I knew where Pedro lived.”

  “It’s not your fault, Maggie. Zorno did this.”

  “But I should have known! I knew his address. I should have known that was where Zorno was leading us. I could have stopped it.”

  “You were tired. You didn’t sleep last night.”

  “I don’t believe this. I fell asleep and let him die. He was counting on us….”

  “Zorno did this, Maggie. You can’t blame yourself. Zorno and the fucking barkeep that passed him this note. I was the one that pushed you into following him. If we had arrested him right away, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Maggie didn’t look convinced.

  She found a dry spot and sank down to the floor, the lase-pistol still in her hand. I studied her shock-seized face, unable to help…another example of how fucking useless I was. Somebody is going to pay for this.

  Some punk kid poked his head in the door.

  “GET OUT!” I scared him so bad that he smacked into the door frame as he bolted away. I looked out and saw there was a whole crowd out there. Just like the flies and lizards, people were attracted to dead bodies. I closed the door and sealed us off from the scavengers.

  I called down to HQ—told them to send out a body wagon and to get some cops here quick for crowd control. I went through the apartment and found Pedro’s mother in the bedroom, lying on the bed with an opium-glazed look on her face, ashtray on the pillow. She’d been here the whole time, too hopped to notice her son being murdered in the room next door.

  I dried the cup with a moldy towel, dropped in a bag of green tea that I found in the cupboard, and poured boiling water. I left the tea bag sunk in the water and brought it to Maggie. It looked like some of the color had returned to her face, but I wasn’t sure.

  I took a seat. Abdul worked from a kneeling position, plastic bags meticulously rubber banded over his clothes. His fingers spread Pedro’s throat wound open. “He did this one the same way—from behind pull right, push left, pull right. The incision isn’t as deep this time. He used a smaller knife, but the cutting motion is the same. It’s not a
s exact as fingerprints, but it looks like Pedro Vargas and Dmitri Vlotsky were killed by the same man.”

  Greased by Pedro and Zorno’s combined blood, he slid more than crawled over to Zorno’s body, which lay facedown. “There’s your killshot,” he said, pointing to the charred region on the top of Zorno’s head. “Help me turn him over, Juno.”

  I got down low, careful to stay out of the blood, and tried using my legs to help power him over. I pulled hard on one of his bulky arms as Abdul turned the torso. I almost fell when the body slid on the slick floor—damn, he was heavy. When we finally succeeded in getting him over, Abdul surveyed the corpse like it was a fine meal. “Ah, we have a stomach wound. I can see it now. The first shot burned into his stomach; he doubled over, and the second shot bored into the top of his head. How am I doing, Juno?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Abdul took his eyes off Zorno’s body to look at Maggie sitting silently on the sofa. “That was nice shooting, Maggie.”

  She met his eyes after a pause, reluctant to speak. “Only two hits; I fired three times.”

  “Two out of three is excellent. I know thirty-year veterans that can’t match that ratio.” He smirked in my direction.

  Two white coats entered. “You have somebody for us?”

  About time! “Yeah, she’s in the bedroom, right down the hall.”

  “Is she injured?”

  “No, just drugged out of her mind. She missed the whole thing.”

  They headed into the bedroom and came out a few minutes later with Pedro’s mother on a stretcher. They had mercifully pulled a sheet over her head, so she wouldn’t have to see her dead son. As soon as they left, in came Paul with that asshole Karl Gilkyson.

  Gilkyson looked ill the instant he laid eyes on the gory scene.

  Paul noticed his queasy stance. “Why don’t you wait outside? We’ll come right out.”

  Gilkyson gave Paul a thankful nod and stepped out.