Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  “He’s my bodyguard. I prefer he stay somewhat sober,” Nikki says.

  Lynch laughs. “Yeah, right.” He rubs his eyes. Then, in a very relaxed fashion, takes a deep breath. I can see that the day, the drink and the drugs are collecting their due from Lynch.

  “So did you argue or something? Maybe it was an act of spite.” Nikki presses. “Maybe all you have to do is apologize.”

  “No, we didn’t argue. I know it was in my wallet. He just stole it. He doesn’t even know what he has. He doesn’t own anything that can read it.”

  “What type of mot does Bobby have?” I ask.

  “A blue Mariah. He parks in the garage, under the apartment building.”

  I nod. “I’ll put the squeeze on him and get the drive.”

  “Like I said before, it’s yellow with a silver band. Its razor thin and ultra light and damn near indestructible. And don’t go thinking about copying it. It’s got a program that produces a feedback spike. The spike will shut down an unauthorized reader. And Space has the only authorized reader.”

  I nod. “I understand.”

  “C’mon little girl, let’s finish this,” Lynch says to Nikki. He bends over and snorts up half the line, then pushes the mirror to Nikki. She cleans the mirror with easy grace.

  Now, they both light cigarettes from Lynch’s plain silver Zippo.

  “One more question,” Nikki says to Lynch.

  “Sure.”

  “What’s with the vid?” She nods at the Thomas Forrestt piece.

  “Because it’s beautiful. Look at that. And look where we’re at now. The Event should have been the precursor to global war. But it didn’t happen. It’s insane. And I always wondered what that sounded like, when the sand turned to glass. Was it a hiss and crackle then ear splitting pop or a slow fusing burning whisper?”

  “Interesting,” says Nikki. We all watch the vid.

  “You probably couldn’t hear anything over the explosion,” I say.

  Lynch and Nikki nod in agreement.

  “Okay, let’s roll, Love,” I say to Nikki. I look over to Lynch. “See you in the city.”

  Lynch nods and smokes his cigarette.

  14

  We exit the house and step into the garage.

  I press the green button my remote and the doors of my mot swing open as the engine hums to life. I watch Nikki stare down the rats as she gets into the mot. I slide in and shut the doors.

  Lynch opens the garage door. I pull out.

  In the street and ready to go, I wave him off. Lynch nods and closes his garage. We hover down the avenue. I enter Ernest Landing then press the walking man icon. A nine-minute countdown clock appears on the dash.

  “So talk to me,” Nikki says as she turns in her seat.

  “Still turning it all around in my head.” I reply. “A multitude of conspiracies contend in the night.”

  “Now you’re getting philosophical on me. I’m stoned, Apollo. Baby steps man, baby steps.”

  “What’s on this flash drive that I’m going to retrieve?” I ask.

  Nikki is silent. She smokes her cigarette. In time she offers, “Something very bad for Space. Like your earlier story, he’s performing some sick sex.”

  “Possible.” I say. “But I’m thinking murder. I’m more of a mind that it has something to do with Fury’s death. Bobby knows exactly what he has. I bet his play is to blackmail Space.”

  Nikki studies my face, then, says. “You’re saying Bobby was screwing Fury and, Lynch killed Fury in a jealous rage? Why would Space pay anyone to keep an employee out of jail?” Nikki winces as she realizes the answer to that question.

  “Because the employee knows a lot about his employer,” I say.

  Nikki nods. Then says, “Who held the camera and caught the murder on film? Did Bobby film the murder or is there another player in this game?”

  “Good questions,”

  We ride in silence, but my thoughts are noisy. And the thought making the most noise is why the hell did I go to Lynch’s place? I could have avoided all this crap if I hadn’t chosen his place for a hideout.

  Nikki plays dance music. The mot swells with pulsing bass and snap dance breaks. She rocks and gyrates in her seat. I sit back and watch her tits bounce. She looks at me watching her. We kiss. She pulls away and rubs my crotch. I take a deep breath and let the fire race over me. I love the feel of my dick straining hard against the fabric of my pants. And so does Nikki. She massages and caresses my cock and my chest and my hair. We kiss – no, we tongue wrestle. She tastes so sweet. She pulls away and I feel disconnected. Her heat is magnetizing and I fall forward, gripping her neck with my lips. This is what I want. Her flesh is taste of victory. And just as I seize her lips with mine she spins and plants her butt on my crotch.

  “Okay, easy…. don’t want to stain my pants.”

  “Your call, cowboy. I’m riding the wild with or without you.” She rocks on me. She grabs my hand and uses my fingers for toys.

  I love being used.

  And so I go monk-like, discipline and denial. I check the slow, black pressure of growing release. It’s maddening and one kiss will set me off into a roaring orgasm.

  Just one kiss.

  “I want inside.”

  “Of course you do.” Nikki lifts up. She works her panties down until they bunch at her knees.

  I open my pants and free myself. Nikki grabs me, escorts me to the gate and slides down.

  “Feel good?” she asks with a laugh. She slaps my cheek.

  I bury my face in her hair and breathe Nikki’s scent. Again my lips find her neck and I savor her hot and taut flesh. I wrap my arms around her, crushing her into my chest, and then I dance with her.

  15

  We arrive at Ernest Landing. We get out of the mot. I press AP on the remote. The mot hovers away to park itself.

  Standing on the corner, looking around for anything unusual. The city rushes about me as a whisper. The wind is warm and slight and I smell fresh baked bread.

  No law enforcement vehicles about. If they were interested in searching Bobby’s apartment, they’d be here.

  “The cops aren’t here,” Nikki states.

  “You’re reading minds again. It’s annoying.” I say.

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  I shake my head and start walking down the sidewalk.

  A bright yellow Peace Officer Drone emerges from around a corner of a building.

  The small oval drone floats over and scans my eyes. Then it checks Nikki. Assured we are not wanted, the POD flies away.

  “I hate those things,” Nikki hisses as we cross the street.

  “They’re easy to beat. I don’t pay ’em any mind,” I reply. We walk into the lobby of the Ernest Landing complex.

  I find Bobby’s name on the apartment registry. Room 6-C.

  “I guess I’ll just push any button to get someone to let us in.”

  “Why not push Bobby’s button?” Nikki asks.

  “Well, I doubt he’s home from his date with the cops.”

  “He might have a roommate.”

  “Lynch didn’t mention a roommate.”

  “Maybe Lynch doesn’t know about a roommate.”

  I nod. I push the button for 6-C. I step out of the camera’s view.

  Nikki opens her bag. She pulls out a messenger ID card with animated CMS (Commons Messenger Service) logo on it.

  “Hello.” The voice is strong and curt.

  Nikki looks into the camera and presents the ID card for inspection. “Hello. I’ve got a registered letter for Bobby Grant from Jet Allen.”

  “C’mon.” The buzzer is shrill static. Nikki enters and I creep in behind her.

  “The old standards.” I say.

  “Work every time.” she confirms.

  We ride the elevator to the sixth floor. It’s a very clean lift with hardwood walls, a carpeted floor, and soft lighting. I wonder what the rent is like here.

  Out of elevator and left down the ha
llway.

  Nikki knocks on the door.

  “Just slip it under the door,” says the voice from inside.

  “No good. You gotta sign for it.” Nikki replies.

  “Christ… Fine,” replies the agitated voice behind the door.

  The door slides open – I jam my fingers into that slender gap, grab the door and force it open. Nikki rushes in with her gun drawn. I follow her into the room and shut the door.

  The agitated voice belongs to a naked guy who is on his back on the floor. Nikki has the barrel of her gun pressed tight against the naked guy’s cheekbone. Naked guy isn’t Bobby Grant.

  Looking down and over Nikki’s shoulder, I ask the very scared naked guy, “So where’s Bobby?”

  “I-I guess he’s still with the cops. He hasn’t called or anything,” he replies fast and shaky.

  “And who are you?” I ask.

  “Tommy. I’m Tommy.”

  “Hello, Tommy. Anybody else here with you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s nice. Tell me, Tommy, have you seen a yellow flash drive with a metal band?”

  His eyes grow wide. Nikki presses the gun further into his flesh. Her finger is off the trigger but Tommy can’t see that.

  Then the little punk pisses a straight hot stream at Nikki. We jump away from Tommy. I’ve never been pissed on and today will not be that day.

  “He almost pissed on me!” Nikki shouts at me. And I see her finger slip to the trigger.

  “Easy. Yes, he deserves to be shot but not now,” I tell her.

  The pissy little bitch on the floor starts crying.

  “This is pathetic! You’re pathetic!” Nikki shouts at the kid so hard that spittle flies from her mouth and lands on Tommy’s lips. She keeps easing left to avoid the growing clear puddle of urine on the floor.

  “Where’s the flash drive!” She traces the barrel of her gun against his lips, teasing to thrust the gun into his mouth.

  “In the bedroom…. on the bureau,” gasps Tommy with red watery eyes.

  I walk into the bedroom and, easy as pie, I spot the flash drive resting atop a small oval vanity mirror, which sits on a vanity counter littered with cosmetics. The vanity’s hot lights are on, vivid brilliance radiates from the polished tri-mirrors like a siren’s call.

  I slide the flash drive into an insignificant compartment of my wallet.

  I glance about the room; it’s very clean, all white walls. A single, framed picture is set on the north wall. It’s a black and white movie still of a dirty prostitute smoking a cigarette and on the verge of crying as she stands on a muddy and foul thoroughfare of an American old west settlement.

  I walk over and stare into the large walk-in closet. The overhead light is dim but I can see expensive wardrobes for both men and women hanging on the left and right. A large yet tidy shoe rack composes the third wall of the closet.

  I study the shoes.

  “Did you find it?” Nikki asks from the other room.

  “Yeah I got it,” I reply. I exit the closet then leave the bedroom.

  “So who dresses as a woman?” I ask Tommy.

  “We both do.” Tommy says drying his tears with the back of his hand. He seems to be comfortable sitting in his own piss.

  “Both you and Bobby?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “Yeah.”

  “For fun or profit?” I ask.

  “Both,” he says. “We dress as girls for all of our customers. We wear men’s suits for the model gigs.”

  “Why did Bobby take the flash drive?” Nikki asks.

  Tommy shakes his head and says, “Bobby didn’t take the flash drive. It’s his.”

  “Explain,” I demand.

  “The flash drive fits in a special camera. Bobby got the special camera from a regular.”

  “Who’s the regular?” Nikki asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s Bobby’s gig.”

  I don’t believe him – neither does Nikki. She grabs Tommy by the hair and puts the gun in his ear. “Tell the truth,” she sneers.

  “Okay I’ve met him.” Tommy gushes with eyes wide open and a gun in his ear.

  “More than just met him. Did you and Bobby entertain him together?”

  Tommy nods. “He came here a few times and we partied like that, but Bobby is his girl.”

  I nod.

  Nikki shoves Tommy to the floor and asks without pause, “So what’s his name?”

  “Lynch,” he answers shying away from Nikki.

  “Just Lynch?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s how I know him. Big black dude. All muscle. All rock.”

  So Lynch lied. Bobby filmed something using a camera he could have only gotten through Lynch. So what did he film? Fury’s murder returns to mind.

  “What’s on the flash drive?” I ask the naked putz.

  “Don’t know. We don’t have anything that can play it. And the camera doesn’t have playback option”

  I believe that. “Didn’t Bobby tell you?”

  “No. He was really screwed up when he came home. You know, not stoned or drunk, more scared. He told me the flash drive was insurance. He said it was the kind of thing that would take care of us for life.”

  “Us, meaning you and Bobby,” I state.

  Tommy nods and continues his tale of woe. “Then the cops came for him…. I called his brother – he’s a high-powered lawyer. No one has said a word to me since.”

  Damn… I believe him. Don’t know why but I do.

  Nikki points the gun to Tommy’s head and asks, “Can I kill him now?”

  “Oh God – why? I’ve told you the truth!”

  I smile and wink at her.

  I bend down and say to Tommy, “Tell anybody we were here and I will stomp you into the ground. Do you understand?”

  Tommy nods like a broken bobble head doll.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Nikki.

  16

  We leave the apartment. Turn left for the elevators.

  “Lynch lied,” Nikki says. “He never had the flash drive, he wanted us to get it.”

  “You believe Tommy too? Yeah, so do I.”

  “Your friend is getting much more interesting.” Nikki says with a smile. She lights a cigarette.

  “Yes he is. I like the way you handled yourself back there. You’re a little ball-buster,” I say and I’m a breath away from a full out laugh.

  Her grin is fat as she takes a drag from her smoke. “Can you believe he pissed? What was that about?” She laughs. I laugh with her.

  “That was sick,” I say.

  “What a little punk,” she replies. Then, “I can’t wait to see that flash drive.”

  “How you gonna read it? Remember what Lynch said about its security. It’ll crash your computer.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

  The elevator is still on our floor so we hop in. I press L.

  “Let me see it,” she asks with hand out.

  I look at her. “Wait till we get back in the mot.”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “What am I gonna lose it between here and there?”

  We step out of the elevator and walk fast across the lobby. I pull out my remote and press the green button. The digital readout indicates the car is fourteen seconds away.

  We exit the building. No cops in sight. Man, this feels so strange. Too damn easy.

  I see it coming but what can I do? The mot is ten seconds away. So I suck it up and deal with it. A large personal advert assaults me on my left. It’s a live feed from 1 Ceres. Space miners under intense spotlights extract zinc, nickel and silver from that cold and distant asteroid. The tag line below the space miners reads: Mkeyinc – Truly Stellar Investments. Truly Stellar Performance.

  “I can’t believe it’s this easy,” she says.

  I nod. “This is indeed too easy. Almost tailor-made.”

  I continue to check for police presence as my mot approaches.

  A tall thin personal sidles up at my right. The sce
ne is a lovely farm populated with happy, contented animals. The tag line, Friends Farms, appears over the scene. A soft voice says, “Friends Farms, famous for our nutritious and true-to-taste beef, chicken and fish. Friends Farms is solely machine-operated. No humans are harmed in the production of our products. Friends Farms. People Friendly. Animal kind.”

  My mot stops where we had discharged earlier. The doors open. Nikki and I step into the vehicle. I press GO. We hover down the avenue. I check the rear view monitor for a tail. We seem to be clean and clear.

  Nikki pulls her laptop from her bag. She opens her computer then snaps her fingers at me.

  “Let me have the drive.”

  I open my wallet. “I know you love that unit. Are you sure you want to risk this?”

  “I’m not worried. My laptop was designed by Proto.”

  “Proto? The hacker?” I ask.

  “The Shut Down god,” she states with pride.

  I’m impressed. Proto’s been screwing with planet economics for decades. From stock markets to rock concerts. He has crashed every major and minor event the world has hosted. Proto is just plain evil. Which calls to mind the question.

  “Is Proto a man or a woman?” I ask.

  “A very old man. No body regen or enhancements. Keeps himself in good shape though. Rides his bike all over the place. He lives here in the city.”

  “Interesting. How do you know him?”

  “He’s a client,” she replies with a smile.

  I give her the drive. She studies it the same way a pitcher tends to a baseball.

  She plugs it into her laptop.

  The tiny clock icon spins on the monitor.

  And continues to spin.

  “I guess it can’t be read,” she says without a hint of defeat. She removes the drive from her laptop and the monitor goes black. She presses the power button and the unit reboots.

  “Well, at least it didn’t crash my laptop.” She says at length and returns her scrutiny to the yellow drive.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “I haven’t got a clue.” She shrugs her shoulders, then, hands the drive back to me.

  I call Lynch.

  Five rings then VM switches on. “All Good. Ping me.” I say, then hang up.