The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues

by Bard Constantine

  I wisely kept my ‘tit’ wisecracks to myself as the ride pulled to a stop. I groaned as I recognized the locale. "Great. The West Docks. Just the place Tommy said for me to scope. Now what are the chances of that being a coincidence?"

  Folks think the Flats are tough, but the only good thing about living there was it wasn't the West Docks. A lot of cases go unsolved when they end up in that part of town. The whole region is a large cut of fog, battered buildings, and human animals slinking in the shadows. The West River is the major dumping ground for a lot of bodies that go missing in New Haven, and had the stink to prove it.

  We stepped out in the rain to take a look around. My hackles rose when Enkidu jumped out and howled to wake the dead. The remains of a tenement building burned right in front of us. The flames roared angrily in spite of the rain, giving the Docks the biggest lightshow they'd see in a month. Or until something else blew up, anyway. No sky hosers had arrived, which was the norm for the Docks. The entire lot looked like a shell had been dropped on it.

  "What’s this?"

  "This was an apartment building. Ms. Kilby was supposed to meet me here.” Selene's unflappable calm was definitely disturbed. Her honeyed locks were plastered as rain wept down her face. Her Gutter Girls circled protectively, searching for unseen threats. The wolf continued to howl in mourning.

  "That ain’t gonna happen. Tommy got to her first. Gotta say, this is extreme even for him."

  "No. It wasn’t him. But whoever it was is looking for the leg, and obviously thought they could find it here."

  "Find it? The entire building is blown to hell. There’s gotta be hundreds of stiffs in there. Are you sure Kilby even showed up?"

  Her eyes hardened into chips of jade. "Of course I am. I got word she received unexpected visitors and was seen leaving with them. Soon after that my contact reported someone else showed up. The only description of the individual was he was hard to describe. I didn’t get anything else because the call was interrupted. Now I know why."

  The flames still flared in the building’s corpse as if defying the downpour. I imagined all the disadvantaged folks who were sleeping or minding their business when their lives were suddenly snuffed out.

  “Lemme get this straight. Kilby was waiting to meet with you. But some trouble boys showed up and took off with her in their company. Then this new lug shows up, gets pissed that she’s gone and blows the whole building to hell?”

  “Exactly. For no reason at all. Just because he could.”

  I really started to regret not surrendering to the Russians. A slow tortuous death at their hands looked like easy street compared to the basket of adders I currently had both hands in.

  "I’m trying to think of anyone with this kind of M.O. but I’m coming up blank. So that must mean there’s a new player in town –someone who’s playing for keeps. No more word games, Selene. It’s time you tell me what's so important about this leg of yours."

  "My entire leg is tattooed. I had it done years ago. Apparently it’s believed there's a pattern to the tattoos. A guide to find something. What it is I don't know, but I do know this –I’m getting the leg back, with or without you. It’s your profit to lose. Are you in?"

  She was lying. There was no way she couldn’t know what was tattooed on her own leg. But at the same time, she was afraid. It takes a lot to frighten a dame like her. Which meant I’d been dealt into a game playing for the ultimate stakes.

  Human lives.

  I took another look at the flames, but they provided no more answers than the black waters of my past. I paused to light a smoke.

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'm in. But we're gonna need one helluva plan if we're gonna pull this off."

  Poddar walked over with Jen. He tried to keep his face calm as he surveyed the destruction. He didn't succeed.

  I gave him a nod. "Well, Poddar old buddy, it looks like we're gonna enjoy each other's company a bit longer. Time to call in the reinforcements. If you got an ace in your hand, now's the time to throw it."

  Poddar nodded. "I know someone. He's like a brother to me. I will give the Cowboy a call.” He tapped a sequence on his holoband.

  "Well yee-haw and scoot my boots, that sounds grand.” I turned to Selene, who looked at the burning building with pity gracing her face. Her wolf had never ceased howling, and his song began to chill my blood. “So, you gonna tell us exactly what we’re up against?”

  "Do you believe in New Haven, Mick?" The soft echo of Tommy Tsunami's question startled me.

  "I believe in fast women, fast wheels, and fast money. Whatever's left is none of my business."

  She gazed at me without a hint of a smile. "It might be a good time to start."

  "I'll keep that in mind. What do you got lined up for me?

  "You're going to use your contacts to find out where Tommy Tsunami is on the lay. Then we're going to storm that location and get my leg back. Once we secure it, we’ll be on track to find Ms. Kilby and whoever is behind this."

  I sighed. "Great. If I'd known I was committing suicide today, I would've worn better rags."

  Poddar wrapped up his conversation. "Oh, and Rob…? You'd better bring Stinker. Yeah. See you soon.” He clicked off his datacom and looked at us. "Ok, we're good."

  I groaned. Because the rain had soaked my last gasper. I paid good dough for those smokes. "Hell. Since we're bringing out the big guns, I may as well make a call of my own. I know just the cat. He’s a synoid. A real killer. His name is Hunter. Hunter Valentino."

  Selene smiled then, the kind of smile which makes you wanna take back what you just said. And run like hell.

  "An excellent suggestion, Mick. Perhaps the smartest thing you've said since we've met."

  I hate it when dames get all mysterious on me. I had a funny feeling the real trouble had only just started.

  Chapter 7: The Taste of Absinthe

  It felt good to reunite with Maxine again. It would've felt better if I could actually handle her, but having a bum arm kinda handicaps a fella. A slug will do that to you, if you're moving slow enough to catch one. And lately I’d been moving awful slow.

  But not slow enough to forget to have Maxine tail us. A simple tap on my holoband assured she followed Selene’s crate the entire time. Good thing too, because although I’m always up for a little feminine company, those Gutter Girls were a little too gonzo for my taste.

  So I kept Max in control of the actual driving while I lounged in the seat. Poddar was back to riding shotgun. He looked a bit anxious, and I couldn't blame him. Dames specialize in making men sweat. That's why I have a strict play-but-don’t-stay policy. Booze makes me sweat enough as it is.

  His friend was on the way to meet us. The Cowboy, he called him. I'd heard of the man before. A pretty famous Nimrod. Lots of bounty killers these days, but supposedly he was to handguns what Einstein was to nuclear theory. I hoped so, because I wasn't looking forward to storming Tommy Tsunami's newest flophouse, probably because of the aforementioned slug I took last time he and I came face to face. Some souvenirs you don't really want to collect again.

  But I'd given my word. Damn that honest side of me.

  We were still in the West Docks. Ramshackle buildings leaned drunkenly on blasted slopes and busted alleyways. On the other side the West River was a tar-colored snake which wallowed in its own stench.

  The Docks are full of a lotta gonzo stories. The kind of bunk you'd scoff at if you hadn't seen it with your own eyes.

  Which I had.

  "Stop for a sec, Maxine." I had just recovered an old pack of smokes from under the seat when I eyeballed a familiar mug in a mob on the corner. Maxine squealed to a halt. I got out as the door opened.

  "I thought we were meeting up with this friend of yours." Poddar was really starting to unnerve me with his whining. "We don't have time for random stops. Every second we waste, Ms. Kilby’s life is on the line."

  I glared at him. "Listen, Ace. You probably wouldn't know this, but ninety percent of investigation is in
stinct. Which I got in spades. So follow my lead and watch my back. Bum arm, you know.”

  The storm had faded to a light drizzle. Still, even with my flogger shielding me from most of the wetness I was starting to feel a bit damp from the constant in and out.

  I placed my good hand on a familiar butt. The grip of the Mean Ol' Broad was almost as sweet as a little grab action with a pro skirt, and twice as safe. It was a gesture of trust on Selene's part to return the heaters the Gutter Girls had stripped me of when they had me in that rather…uncomfortable situation earlier. I pointed her skyward and pulled the trigger.

  All I heard was thunder.

  The mob on the corner scattered like hopheads that’d just seen a siren flash. All except my mark.

  "Frankie!" I spread my arms wide. "Frankie Newman. It's been a dog's age, Ace."

  Newman used to be a nightclub crooner, and a pretty good one at that. I’d seen him captivate live audiences like a puppet master. There was something about his voice. It was almost hypnotic. I’m not exactly the best judge on those type of things, but I’ve never heard better.

  He used to perform at all sorts of ritzy joints in his heyday, enjoying the kind of celebrity status only a few are privileged to. But in this town that meant rubbing elbows with the kind of men who dipped their fingers in a lot of dirty places. He’d seen the wrong thing at the wrong time, resulting in a few unscrupulous lugs who wanted him rubbed out to prevent any eyewitness accounts.

  I managed to save his bacon, but that meant tucking him far away from the folks who were looking for him. No one would think to scope for him in the Docks. He was forced to retire his singing career and took up social work for the listless zombies who wandered the boulevards of broken dreams. And gathered his information.

  That was his other talent. He could comb through a river of slop and come up with diamonds every time. Tapping into that network of streaming data was my reward for saving his worthless hide, whether he liked it or not.

  "Dammit, you just cost me big time." Frankie shot dirty looks I ignored as he folded his portable table into a briefcase. The terrace of the crumbling building shielded him from the rain; streams of it fell between us like prison bars. His hair floated around his head like he'd just stuck a wet finger in a live socket, and his coat had so many patches on it I couldn't tell where the original fabric started. Like everything else, his appearance was an illusion. He could blend in with any crowd, anywhere.

  "No one cares about your work, anyway." I lit a smoke and puffed. "They had to be homeless, for crying out loud. How were they gonna pay you, in lice eggs?"

  "It's not the berries. It's the information. These guys see and hear everything. So thanks for gumming that up for me. What do you want from me this time?"

  I rubbed my hands together. "Pipe this: a few nights ago someone's leg got snatched, see? A high pillow kinda someone. Now, I know Tommy Tsunami has his mitts on it at present, but I wanna know who did the snatch in the first place. The way I see it, Selene's gotta be as tightly guarded as Tommy, maybe more. But someone got past her security, her Gutter Girls, even past her wolves. Then they sedated her and performed a perfect surgical amputation without killing her. Now who in the hell could pull a stunt like that?"

  Frankie’s mouth twisted. "I heard about the leg, yeah. Old news. It was the work of a freelance thief, maybe the best in the business. Goes by the handle of La Fox. Besides being a master hacker, she can steal the nails off of your fingers with a handshake. A common leg would be duck soup for a pro like her. That's all I know."

  I love it when a stoolie says 'that's all I know'. Which translates to: ‘Payment up front.’ I pulled out a loaded dibcard. "Ok, Frankie. I got a hunch that a yard can jog your memory."

  He snatched the card and instantly downloaded the dibs with a swipe across his holoband. "Look, you had better know you're waist deep in gasoline here. You’re going to blow sky high if you keep shooting off sparks. It’d be better for you to walk away while you still have all your parts in working order.”

  “Appreciate the concern, Ace. But I just paid for a song. So sing, little birdie.”

  He glared. “La Fox was brought in from outside the network, since every freelancer in town already has ties to the Gestalt in one way or another. Takes a lot of work to get into New Haven unannounced. That alone should tell you this soup is too hot for you to swallow.”

  “Good thing I’m cold as ice. Keep talking, Ace.”

  “Fine. Don’t say you weren’t warned.” He took a wary glance around and hunched his shoulders. I had to strain to hear him when he spoke.

  “Something big is going down. Even the hardheads here in the Docks are spooked. They talk about a man with silver eyes which can kill just by looking at you. That explosion a few blocks from here? Yeah, his work. No one knows his name or where he comes from. But I happen to know they call him the New Man. He's gathering soldiers. Hardheads, goons, bums—they get snatched up and next time you see them they're in black robes, on secret assignments and smoking anyone who gets in their way.

  “They call themselves the Specters. Seems they're pitching fits because someone stole some precious cargo from them a few nights back. Has to be the leg. They've been tearing the city apart looking for it."

  I exhaled a sigh of second-hand smoke. "Frankie, you're killing me. I ask for the wire and you give me bedtime stories. Don’t get me wrong, it was entertaining and all. So thanks for that. Now spill, only this time tell me the actual truth."

  "Hey, you know how I deal. That’s the crop. If you don’t like it, you can climb your thumb, Mick. We'll see how well you can—"

  Frankie couldn't finish his genius insult on account of being slammed against the wall. Poddar placed his handy kukri to Frankie’s throat. I took another drag and exhaled ghosts while Frankie gurgled in fear.

  "You're going to tell us what we want to know right now." Poddar’s soft voice was laced with cold steel. "People’s lives hang in the balance, and you're wasting our time."

  Frankie sneered. “I don’t think so. Your part in this game is over.” He looked Poddar directly in the eyes. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and think about nothing for a minute?”

  Poddar’s eyes went blank and his mouth dropped wide open. Frankie’s voice seemed to come from everywhere. It rang in my ears like gongs of pure crystal. There was something about it, something hypnotic…

  “And why don’t you go jump in the lake, Mick Trubble?”

  The insane part was I really did want to jump in the lake. It was only the fact that New Haven didn’t have one which saved me from a premature baptism. The confusion splintered the hypnosis, allowing rational thought to resurface. When it did, my first instinct was to go for the Mean Ol’ Broad.

  But when I raised that lovely piece of steel-plated poetry, Poddar was looking at me open-mouthed.

  Holding an empty jacket. Frankie Newman had pulled a Casper right in front of our eyes.

  I shook my head. "Damn, he's good.”

  We pulled up to a dilapidated house a few minutes later. Hunter Valentino actually lived in the West Docks, which right away should tell you a bit about his personality. I don't come calling except in the most extreme circumstances. He kinda gives me the creeps.

  Maxine squealed off with Poddar to pick up the Cowboy, which left me at the ramshackle dive with no way to escape. The rain had temporarily stalled and the streets responded by letting off some steam, creating a haze which suited the place well. I walked up the broken steps and opened the door. It was never locked. Only a kamikaze nut job would walk in on Hunter looking for trouble.

  "You look like you could use a drink.” Hunter didn’t bother to turn around. The eerie thing about him is he always knew when I was coming. I never figured that one out.

  The place was almost as cheerful as a funeral parlor. A single flickering bulb illuminated what I guessed was the kitchen area. Hunter looked pale as a ghost, especially since he insisted on wearing black all the time. Only his
tie had any color, a lime tongue that lolled down his chest. He gestured to the table.

  "Absinthe.” The glasses glowed green with the stuff. A bowl of sugar cubes sat beside the glasses.

  That was our tradition before talking. He drank nothing else, which was probably why he was so gonzo. Well, that and the fact he was a synoid. That was the real reason why he drank. If you can’t spot a synoid on sight, you can always figure it out by what’s on the menu.

  Meat and pretty much nothing else besides stiff drinks. High volumes of alcohol and protein are converted into the fuel which keeps them running. I don’t trust synoids as a rule, but somehow I’d come to terms with this particular one. After all, he was the one who pulled me out of that black, filthy water the night I lost my memory. I never really bothered to question why.

  Maybe because I was afraid of the answer.

  The thing which made Hunter unique is he's independent. Every now and then a synoid will get its wires crossed, or its remote operation goes faulty, or a million other variations. In most cases it will shut down permanently, but every now and then one will continue developing, continue to improve its own programming. It will behave so human that eventually it comes to believe it is.

  Of course synoids are easily detectable if you look closely. Their faces tend to be a bit too doll-like, but it’s the eyes that give them away. No engineering in the world can put a soul inside of those windows. With synoids there’s just nothing there. Not exactly the creepiest thing I've seen, but it comes close.

  Hunter’s independence was illegal of course, and the standard procedure is to destroy any such synoid upon detection. In his case that was a task easier said than done because Hunter was more than his name; it’s his model description. Hunter model synoids are a step above street sweepers. They’re designed to infiltrate, search for a specific target, and destroy it. Which made a body wonder who his mark was before he became a free agent.