Draconian New York (Hob Draconian Book 1)

by Robert Sheckley

  To choose international crime hadn’t been easy for Sachs, a Lutheran minister who had started life in Stockhausen working on the docks, and had come to San Isidro almost thirty years previously by a route that involved a long stay in Shanghai and a longer one in American Samoa. In the end, Sachs had succumbed to the lure of improving the lot of his poor undernourished pellagra-stricken people who contested with Haiti for the lowest position on the world poverty charts.

  San Isidro had nothing. San Isidro had lost its trees ages ago, its mineral-poor soil had been used up both for farming and for mining. Its waters were fished out. Nobody wanted to start a semiconductor plant in its festering suburbs. The World Bank loaned it 20 million or so a couple years ago as a Christmas present, but there were other, more promising candidates now. And anyway, the money had all gone into vaccine to fight the plague the UN inspectors had brought—Norwegian White and Blue Fever it was called, a disease that caused the infected to die babbling of fjords. By the time it was settled, the San Isidreans were no better off than before. What was there left to do but turn to crime? Happy the country that had even that possibility, no matter how morally indefensible.

  President Sachs had turned the execution of the problem over to his right-hand man and UN representative, Olivier Santos y Manchega. Santos had brought up the all-important first shipment, the first sample of the Mojo, the White Babbler, the San Isidrean Giggle Dust, the Pale Bash. It wasn’t much trouble getting it into the country. That part was safe enough. Even if they suspected you, they didn’t open diplomatic pouches, that would spoil it for all their friends. It was the next parts that were going to be difficult. Because selling San Isidrean coke involved a lot more than finding a market. There was the international cartel to think about, and they were more dangerous than the feds. Although he had the cooperation of the Medellín cartel, the boys from Cali had different ideas. Still, Sachs thought he could get things going.

  “Remember two things,” Sachs had told Santos before he left.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t let the feds get you. And don’t get ripped off.”

  Unfortunately, there had been no time to fix the police and DEA people at New York. Santos had been annoyed about that, but it couldn’t be helped; arrangements were made for longtime players, new boys in the game had to take their chances. It was a delicate situation. Santos understood that the New York police liked corruption, and also liked rigorous efficiency. It was always hard to tell which you were going to get.

  New York being a weird place made it all the worse, of course.

  New York itself was but a transshipment point. The new place for drug expansion was Europe.

  And so Santos had turned over the sample bag to Paco, his loyal family retainer. Paco would handle the next step.

  Paco was thinking about all this, as a man will as he strolls up Broadway with a couple of kilos’ worth of product in a canvas bag snug against his brown belly with the faint line of black hairs up the middle, and not paying too much attention to what was going on around him, since it seemed to be nothing more than New York up to its old tricks again, the usual city scene, the typical stick. Or so it seemed.

  A moment later, Paco had changed his mind. His wide-set eyes, with their visual periphery extended far beyond that of an ordinary civilized man, a bit of his Caribe Indian heritage, picked up subcues he hadn’t even been consciously searching for. His attention was caught by a movement curiously out of synch with the movements of others, there on the extreme threshold of the farthest edge of his seeing. Paco left the Port Authority, went uptown, turned at Forty-seventh Street, glancing into a store window as he turned, and saw, in the darkly reflecting glass, two men who by the suspicious auras they gave off, as well as a certain reptilian alertness to their close-set eyes, seemed to be following him.

  12

  Hob opened his eyes. Standing near him, a look of concern on his mild face, was a middle-aged, light-skinned black man wearing neatly pressed jeans and a blue work shirt. He was balding; iron gray tufts of hair encircled his ears. He wore steel-framed glasses. Around his neck on a thin gold chain was a small gold Star of David.

  Hob sat up. Apparently he had fallen asleep in his clothes. Sunlight was streaming in the window, so he couldn’t have been asleep too long. His nose felt and smelled like a rotted Idaho potato. His sinuses ached from having been a battlefield for crystalline substances decaying in his mucous membranes. He had a dull headache at the back of his skull; it was the sort of ache that can’t be distinguished from incipient brain tumor. Aside from that, he was fine.

  “Who are you?” Hob asked.

  “I’m Henry.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t believe so. I’m Henry Smith, Mr. Rosen’s cleaning man.”

  “Hello, Henry. I’m Hob Draconian. I’m a friend of Mr. Rosen’s.”

  “Yes sir. I figured you was a friend.”

  “Is Mr. Rosen still out?”

  Henry looked puzzled. “He wasn’t here when I got here.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I don’t expect him at all. He just leaves my check on the fridge. I come every Saturday. Sometimes he’s here, sometimes not.”

  Saturday. That was curious. Hob had come to Max’s on Friday. Henry must have gotten his days wrong.

  “I think this is Friday, Henry.”

  “No, sir. This is Saturday.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because just before I come here I go to shul every Saturday at the Ethiopian Israelite Synagogue on a Hundred Thirty-seventh Street and Lenox Avenue.”

  Hob pondered. His brain felt ever so slightly paralyzed. He was having difficulty making sense out of the simplest propositions. At least, he assumed they were simple. So this was Saturday. That meant he’d been out cold for about twenty-four hours.

  Well, he’d been tired. Jewish divorces really take it out of a guy. But the real reason, of course, was the combination of cocaine and that gold-speckled purple pill, the blockbuster muscle relaxant that Kelly had given him. If the brain is a muscle, that stuff really worked.

  “You look kinda unsteady,” Henry said, watching Hob get to his feet. Hob felt like a newborn deer taking its first steps. He looked like a gut-shot giraffe. Henry reached out and steadied him before he tripped over a wall. “Kin I git you some coffee before I go?” he asked.

  Hob almost refused: Hell, that’s all right, I can get it myself, just point me toward the kitchen and give me a little push. But then two thoughts crossed the deteriorating tabula rasa of his mind. The first was, I’d give almost anything to have a cup of coffee brought to me and put into my shaking hands. The second was, once Henry was out of the room he could take a couple of lines and pull himself together.

  “Thanks, Henry, if it’s not too much trouble I’d appreciate coffee very much.”

  Henry went into the kitchenette and quickly made Hob a cup of instant coffee, using the hot-water tap. He waited until Hob sipped it, then said, “You okay now?”

  “I’m fine, Henry,” Hob said. “Did Mr. Rosen say when he’d be back?”

  Henry shook his head. “He never tells me nothin’. I just clean up. Anything else you need?”

  Hob shook his head.

  “Then I’ll be gettin’ along. See you next Saturday, if you’re still here.”

  As soon as Henry left, Hob opened the drawer on the coffee table and found the big onyx stone. Henry had put it away neatly. The coke was still on it, as were the blade and the snorter. Henry must be really reliable, cleaning up stuff like this every Saturday and not getting whacked out of his head. Or maybe he was religious.

  If this was Saturday …

  Hob had to face it, if the guy had just been to shul, this was Saturday.

  So where had Friday gone? For that matter, what day had he left Ibiza? Something was out of sorts, him or the time. He decided not to think about it just now. He’d lost a day. What would he lose next? He cut two
small lines and snorted them. The cocaine burned. His sinuses winced in response. Then his head cleared. The delicious numbness of incipient peritonitis invaded his gums. He felt a whole lot better: there’s nothing like cocaine to alleviate the condition it creates. For the moment he resisted the temptation to take another couple of lines. The telephone started to ring.

  Hob decided to ignore it. But it’s difficult to just let a telephone ring, even if it isn’t yours. Ringing telephones demand to be answered. Still, Max must have his own system for dealing with phone calls when he was out. Maybe he just didn’t bother with them, figuring, if it’s important, they’ll call back.

  The phone continued insisting. After another twenty or so rings, it stopped.

  Hob finished the coffee. He opened his suitcase and unpacked his meager wardrobe—an extra pair of jeans, a few shirts, a change of underwear, and a heavy Formentera sweater in case there was a cold snap in July. He went to the guest bathroom and took a shower. That helped. He shaved, and that helped even more. Then he dressed and went out into the living room.

  The Betamax and the VCR both looked terribly complicated with their little red and green lights and all those switches and dials. It wouldn’t do to break his host’s toys. He decided to look them over later. Meanwhile he was hungry. He was about to go check out the kitchenette when the telephone started again, and then another telephone somewhere else in the apartment joined in. Hob didn’t answer either of them. He decided to check out the apartment, just in case Max was lying dead or unconscious somewhere.

  In Max’s bedroom suite, on the other side of the living room from where he was staying, Hob came across an open bureau drawer. Inside it were several sets of keys. Underneath the keys he saw more little bottles of coke and pills. But no grass, which he could really have used. Below the bottles, held together with a thick blue elastic band, was about fifteen hundred dollars in hundreds. Under that was a blue steel Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. Hob didn’t touch either. Sometimes those things have hair triggers. As far as he could tell, it was loaded.

  He was looking at the gun, the drugs, and the bills, and thinking night thoughts, when he heard the phone begin again. At the same moment, there was the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

  13

  It took three keys to open Max’s front door. Hob listened while the locks clicked one by one. Then the door opened and in walked Dorrie, Max’s assistant, whom he had met earlier—twenty-four hours earlier, if Henry was to be believed; and if you can’t believe a black Jewish cleanup man who doesn’t steal his boss’s coke, who can you believe? Dorrie was wearing tweed trousers and a black turtleneck.

  She said, “Do you know how long it takes to get here from Brooklyn Heights?”

  “Half hour?” Hob hazarded.

  “Try an hour and twenty minutes including a fifteen-minute delay under the river.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, but that’s hardly my fault.”

  “Of course it’s your fault,” Dorrie said. “Max has been trying to call you for hours, but where you come from they apparently don’t answer telephones. Or maybe you weren’t sure what that ringing noise was.”

  “We’ve heard of them in Ibiza,” Hob said, “but we don’t trust them.”

  “That’s obvious. Anyhow, Max phoned me and asked me to come up here and find out if you were alive or dead, and, if alive, to ask you to pick up the goddamn phone, he wants to talk to you.”

  She glared at Hob, beautiful and aggrieved, and just like that Hob was in sticky and familiar territory, accused of not performing a deed he had thought better left undone. He had hardly met Dorrie and already they were sounding like the terminal stage of a marriage on the skids. Hob reminded himself never to marry her; heavy dating would be plenty.

  “Why are you looking at me with that weird look?” she asked. “Isn’t my makeup on straight?”

  “You know, you’re beautiful when you’re mad,” Hob said.

  She stared at him. Her sails were all set aback by the head wind of his oxymoron. It was obvious to him that she was a nut for ambiguity. He noticed that her lower lip glistened.

  “You’re quite crazy,” she said at last.

  “I’m not, you know. It’s just my complicated way of asking you out to dinner.”

  Hob could see her trying it on for size. Something was going on between them. Or at least between him. His heart was pounding. Cocaine kickback or genuine human emotion? Or is there any difference?

  The telephone, long threatened, rang pat upon the moment. Dorrie and Hob looked at each other and at the telephone. The telephone looked back at them with its silly beige face with the numbers on it. It rang and rang, pleading, raging—they’re so childish, these telephones. Hob was determined to wait it out. Me Tarzan, you Telephone. But Dorrie lost her nerve and answered it.

  “Yeah,” she said, “he’s here, your old Ibiza buddy.” She handed Hob the telephone. “It’s for you. I’m going to make some coffee.” She walked out into the kitchenette.

  “Max?” Hob said.

  “How ya doing, babe?” Max said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hob, I got a favor to ask you.”

  His voice, despite the energy he put into it, sounded thin and far away.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Paris.”

  “Paris, France?”

  “I sure as hell don’t mean Paris, Texas.”

  Hob called out to Dorrie, “He’s in Paris.”

  “I know,” Dorrie said. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black.”

  Max said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Max, are you really in Paris, France?”

  “Hob, so help me God, I’m in Paris, France. I’m in the Hotel du Cygne on the corner of Montparnasse and Raspail.”

  “But how could you be in Paris?”

  “Big old jet airolino, baby. Get’s you there in like nothing flat.”

  “All right,” Hob said, “you’re in Paris. So what else is new?”

  “That’s better! Look, Hob, a business matter came up suddenly. I had to get over here quick to close a deal. I’m going into partnership here with the Dartois Agency. This is big, babe, very big. In about a week I’m going to be a part owner of the biggest model agency in Europe or America. And that, my boy, is not piffle.”

  “Congratulations, Max.”

  “Thanks. Reason I called, I need one of my models over here soonest. Her name’s Aurora. Aurora Sanchez. I don’t suppose she’s called in while you were there?”

  “No, sorry,” said Hob.

  “Well, I need her here. I promised her to Montmorency to headline his new spring line. She’s going to be his model of the year. It’ll make her one of the world’s top models, and it’ll close my deal with Dartois.”

  “That’s great, Max.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I got to get her here. Hob, I want to hire you to find her and put her on a plane to Paris soonest. You go with her. I want you to hand-deliver her to me. This is important, Hob. Will you do it?”

  “I guess so,” Hob said. “But two days isn’t much time. How do I get the tickets? Has she got a passport? And where do I find her? And by the way, what are you paying me for this?”

  “I knew I could count on you,” Max said. “There’s ten thousand dollars in this for you. Hob. What you need, baby. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? But you have to drop everything else and get right on this.”

  “For ten thousand dollars,” Hob said, “I’ll wipe my appointment calendar clear for the next week. Hell, I’ll give you two weeks.”

  “I just need two days, Hob. But you have to bring her to Paris. As for the tickets, I’ve already reserved them in your name. You can pick them up at the Air France office at Kennedy. There’s a flight in the morning leaves at seven a.m. You’ve got to be there an hour early. Your passport is in order?”

  “Don’t worry about my passport. What about Aurora’s?”

  “I made
sure she had one when I was still in New York. I’ve been hoping to put this deal across.”

  “Okay, now where do I find her?”

  “Got a pencil and paper? Okay, here are some addresses and telephone numbers.” Max talked, and when he was finished, Hob read the names and numbers back. “That ought to do it. There’s a little leather-bound address book on the desk in my bedroom. Dorrie’s number is there, and Kelly’s. You’ll find walking-around money in the left-hand drawer of my bedroom bureau. Also plenty of you know what, in case you need it. My number here at the hotel is in my address book, too. This is where I always stay when I’m in Paris. Just do this for me, Hob. Get Aurora and get her here.”

  “She’s not going to balk, is she?” Hob asked. “I charge extra for drugging people before I put them on an international flight.”

  “Are you crazy? When she hears about this, she’ll kill to get to Paris. You’re not going to have any trouble with this one, Hob. Just do it! Okay, babe?”

  When Hob put down the telephone, his hands were shaking. Another little line? No! He had work to do. This was the finest break of fortune he’d ever had. This little job could set up the agency properly, pay the traspaso, and with what was left over from the fifteen hundred dollars walking-around money he could get something to Harry Hamm in Ibiza, and something to Nigel Wheaton wherever he was, and to Jean-Claude. All he had to do was find a girl named Aurora and get her to Paris. How difficult could that be?

  14

  Dorrie, all business, opened her big purse and took out a folder. “Here’s the information I have on Aurora. You’ll note she lives on East Sixty-sixth Street near East River Drive, directly crosstown from here. Here’s the number of the photo studio where she does most of her work. We have the number and address of an aunt in Brooklyn, but she’s never there. Also the number of the church she goes to, also in Brooklyn. Here are some photographs of her. That’s it. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go home?”