Though I had no evidence-real or even imagined-to support it, I had the undeniable feeling that there was another linkage tying everything together. A was related to B, which was related to C and D. What if D were somehow connected with A? And, further, what if the whole alphabet soup was somehow connected to X? Say, for example, a link between William Sutcliffe and Crash-cart?
I shook my head. Sheer paranoia, part of my mind told me. But another part wondered if I was being paranoid enough. A paranoid is someone in possession of all the facts . . .
So what I needed were all the facts. Specifically, I needed to know more about Crashcart, the company that ran the medical service and the corporation that owned it (if any). That kind of information was available via the Matrix, but the kind of deep-background dirt I really wanted would be hidden in the furthest shadows. Again I had need of a decker. Rosebud? No, I decided, the varsity for this one. It had to be Buddy.
I drank another mug of soykaf to fortify myself, then called her number. She'd changed her outgoing message, in that there was one: "Frag off and die [beep]." I cursed silently at Buddy's non-real-time communication paradigm, and left a message. In essence, "Dig up all the dirt on Crashcart, and be particularly aware of connections with Sutcliffe." I hung up, visions of depleted credit balances running through my brain. When you use the best-which Buddy was-you pay through the snout. And one of the major disadvantages of being a SINless shadow is that you can't just throw up your hands and declare bankruptcy. No credit, no life. And bodyleggers-"purveyors of gray-market transplants"-were always around to take any debts out of your hide, quite literally.
So what was I going to do now? Buddy would get back to me in her own sweet time. Bent had given me everything he could, and I didn't want to drag him in any deeper. Ditto Naomi. Jocasta I could talk to, but she still hadn't given me her number. I could probably get her a message through KSTS or the university, but that wasn't what I wanted right then.
I looked over at the bed, thinking it was still early enough to justify going back to sleep. But my brain was awake, and I decided I'd honed that weapon enough.
I should have thought about it earlier. You want the phone to ring, you take a shower. It was buck-naked and dripping lather that I bolted across the room and hit the Receive key, but only after being sure the video pickup was off, for reasons of discretion as well as security.
I didn't recognize the face that appeared on the screen. It was a young ork, maybe in his early twenties, the sides of his head depilated and his hair built up into a multi- colored, Iroquois-style crest. He wore biker-style leathers, none too clean but showing a collar lined with synthetic leopard skin. I knew the combination of collar and crest identified the gang he ran with, but I couldn't place it at the moment, and besides, couldn't have cared less. From the slight breakup of the image, I guessed he was using a public phone somewhere. "Yeah?" I barked.
He frowned into what I knew was a blank screen. "You Dirk Montgomery?"
I hesitated. I guess my paranoid reflections had gotten to me. "I can take a message," I told him. His turn to hesitate. "Teri gave me this number." Teri . . . "Theresa?" I snapped. "Yeah, Theresa Montgomery," he said. "I got to talk to her brother."
"You are," I told him. "Why?"
"She crashed, pretty bad it looks like. Maybe she slotted a bad chip, maybe too many, I don't know."
I closed my eyes. I'd feared this phone call, but expected it in equal measure. I don't think I ever really believed my sister wouldn't turn into a chiphead. "What happened?" I asked quietly.
"I don't know," he babbled defensively. "I wasn't there when it happened. She-I don't know-she got twitchy. She forgot who we were, she started screaming-"
"How is she now?"
"She's not here . . ."
"Where is she?" I shouted. I could see the ork considering cutting the connection, so I forced myself to sound more reasonable. "Sorry," I said. "But she is my sister. When you saw she was in trouble, you took her somewhere, right?"
He hesitated, his belligerent expression softening a little. "To a clinic," he said. "We took her to a street clinic."
I ground my teeth. Since our parents had died, I'd maintained a DocWagon basic contract for Theresa.
I still had her card in my wallet. But she refused to take it or register herself with the DocWagon organization. That would have involved putting her residence on file, and she probably feared-with justification, I suppose-that I'd use the data to track her down somehow. I'd maintained the contract in the vain hope that Theresa would call me if something happened to her, giving me a chance to dispatch the DocWagon trauma team if necessary. I wanted to scream at this gutter-boy ork, abuse him to hell and back for taking my sister to some squatter clinic when she could be in a reputable DocWagon trauma ward right now.
But of course the ork had no way of knowing that Theresa had DocWagon coverage, and it sounded as though she'd been in no condition to tell anyone about it. No matter how much I wanted to blame the ork, how could I? What if he hadn't called me at all, totally washing his hands of Theresa?
I struggled to keep my voice even and non-threatening. "Okay, you took her to a street clinic. Where?
Which clinic?"
"I didn't take her," the ork said. "The way she was ... No way I could manage her on a bike. Fitz took her in his car."
"Where did Fitz take her?"
"The UB," he said. "The Universal Brotherhood, they've got free clinics, and . . ."
"Which chapterhouse?"
"Meridian and Twenty-third. It's nearest." Meridian and Twenty-third.
That was in Puyallup, the Wildwood Park region to be exact. With that jog to my memory, the ork's gang affiliation fell into place. The leopard skin and Iroquois cut meant the ork ran with the Night Prowlers.
Compared to real social deviants like the Tigers and the Ancients, the Prowlers are wussies or "mabels"-to use the pejorative currently in vogue- generally limiting themselves to the less terminal forms of aggravated assault and armed robbery. But they're still not people you'd want to meet in a dark alley. It worried me more than a little to think of Theresa hanging with them.
"When did this go down?" I asked him.
"Last night, late." He shrugged. "Three, maybe four when she started to lose it."
"Thanks for the buzz," I said, and I meant it. The ork almost smiled, but of course smiling would have been much too uncool. "Null," he said. "I like Ten. She's stone, you know? If you see her before I do, tell her Pud says hoi." And with that Pud the ork ganger broke the connection.
I called up the directory, scanned for the Brotherhood's Puyallup chapterhouse, and hit the key to place the call. I was pleased to get a real receptionist-cleavage, frizzed blonde hair, capped teeth, and all.
Not only is a real one usually better-looking than the video-construct voice-mail systems that are proliferating in the corporate world, but you can actually argue with her.
"Thank you for calling the Universal Brotherhood," she said, sounding like she meant it. "How may I help you?"
"You've got a clinic there?" -She nodded. "We sure do," she said proudly. "A free clinic, for those unfortunates who can't afford insurance or normal health care. Just another way we're contributing to the fabric of life in the sprawl."
I waited for her to finish the sales pitch, but it took all the self-control I had. "I need-to find out about one of your patients," I told her.
She frowned, a pretty little moue that, in my present mood, made me want to strangle her. "I'm very sorry," she began predictably, "but we can't give out information on-"
"She's my sister," I barked. "Her name's Theresa Montgomery, or maybe Teri. She was brought in early this morning. At least tell me if she's all right." I meant to say, "tell me if she's alive," but at the last moment the words wouldn't come out.
A look of real concern appeared on the receptionist's face. "I'm so sorry," she said. "You must be very worried. I'll check the records for you." Her face vanished, to be replac
ed by a recorded talking-head blathering on about the Brotherhood's philanthropic projects. I muted the volume and chewed my nails.
Cleavage-frizz-and-teeth was back quickly, looking puzzled. "... very sorry, Mr. Montgomery," she said, as I brought the volume back up, "we have no record of a Theresa or Teri Montgomery, or any name phonetically similar."
"Maybe she couldn't give her name," I suggested, "or maybe she gave a fake one.
She's in her late twenties, tall with short blonde hair-"
"I'm sorry," the receptionist told me firmly, "but your sister's not here."
"How do you know that?"
She bit her lip. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but the records show we've had no admissions at all since about twenty-two-thirty last night. Are you sure your sister was brought here? There are other free clinics, you know."
I hesitated. Pud the ork had said so, but it was Fitz who'd taken her, and Pud hadn't gone along. "No,"
I told the receptionist, "I'm not sure. Thanks for your time."
I keyed the telecom off before she could give me a no doubt insipid farewell. I grabbed my duster, made sure my pistol was securely in the holster. I had a gang to visit.
Chapter 12.
In general, Puyallup is about on a par with Purity, except that it seems to be trying to crawl up out of the ashes while Redmond seems totally oblivious to its condition. The Meridian region looks to be a little better off. No burned-out cars on the sidewalk and most of the buildings still have doors and windows.
Nevertheless, the air carries that same scent of barely repressed violence, and Lone Star patrols are always well-armed and on the jump after dark.
I parked my car in the secured lot on Seventeenth Street, across from Wildwood Park. I contracted with the guard for a nonexistent second car as well to make sure he found it more to his best interests to keep the car intact for me than to give it up to the local chop-shop artists. Then I strolled along Twenty-third Avenue into the heart of Night Prowlers territory.
Shaikujin are always amazed at how easy it is to track people down once you know their neighborhood, but that's the reason it's so important to make sure your enemies don't know where you hang.
For thrill-gangers, that's not easy, of course. Your colors mark you, and anyone who's seen them knows the likely places to find you. To avoid being found, you've got to hole up somewhere else. With a gang, that means ducking into another gang's territory. Which, in turn, means doffing your colors-which no self-respecting ganger is going to do willingly-so that the gang whose territory you've entered won't serve you up as an object lesson to anyone with territorial ambitions.
What that meant to me now was that I could be confident of getting a line on Pud the Prowler. It didn't cost me too much in time or nuyen. It was just a matter of strolling Twenty-third, overtipping blatantly for an indigestible breakfast from the local soykaf stand, then paying for five packs of Js but "neglecting" to take them, and finally buying another breakfast at another spot-a meal I donated to a couple of squatters in an alley. And, all the time, talking to everyone, asking about the Prowlers in general and a young ork named Pud in particular. As Rosebud might have put it, it was a "no-brainer." Within an hour, I had enough background that I could probably have written a pamphlet called, "A Day in the Life of Pud and his Chummer Fitz." Pud and Fitz-a troll, natch-were given to greeting the day with a round of red-eyes at The Mill, a neighborhood watering hole. After that, their schedule took them to an assortment of pool halls and simsense arcades, punctuated by cruises around their turf. Then they'd cap the day off with massive substance-abuse sessions near the reservoir, and maybe a nice, diverting little rumble (or whatever) with the Ladies from Hades, an all-female gang who claimed the territory on the other side of Shaw Road.
Sounded like a fulfilling life to me.
It was only the early portion of Pud's busy day that concerned me, of course. I checked my watch.
Just short of ten, which meant The Mill was the best bet.
The Mill had once been home to limbo's One-Hour Dry Cleaning, you could still see where the old neon tubing had been torn from the wall. The single window of the narrow frontage was tinted so you couldn't see in from the street. The establishment's sole identification was a small rusted sign on the door.
Breakfast wasn't The Mill's best time. As I stepped through the door, I saw only two customers sitting at the bar, a rummy drinking his first meal of the day and Pud the ork. Pud was working on his second red-eye-a mixture of beer and tomato juice that I personally find repugnant-but wasn't so engrossed in breakfast not to look up and give me the evil eye as I came in. I twitched as his gaze passed over me, but then the logical portion of my brain reminded me I hadn't turned on the video pickup during our phone conversation. I settled myself at the end of the bar, five stools away to Pud's right, and quietly ordered a bloody mary from the bored bartender. As she mixed my drink, I considered how I would make my approach to Pud.
The drink arrived and I took a sip. Not enough dill, predictably, and I think the gin was watered. I half-turned toward Pud and raised my glass. He glanced over, curled his lip. "Ten says thanks," I said, loud and clear enough so he could recognize my voice.
I was watching his eyes for that initial reaction. It's the eyes that always give it away when you've achieved tactical surprise. And I saw that I had.
If I was expecting a guilty response, I didn't get it. The young ork's eyes opened a little wider in surprise, then his face split in a grin. Totally sincere, I'd bet on it. "She's doing okay?" he asked. "That's wiz." Then he remembered who and where he was and the role he should be playing. He schooled his expression back to its normal scowl. "You her brother, huh?"
I nodded. "Teri told me where you might be, so I came down to say thanks personally." I went through that fast so he wouldn't catch any holes in my story. Then I hit him with something that might distract him, at least a little. "Can I buy you another breakfast?"
He glanced at the depleted red-eye on the bar in front of him, grinned in spite of himself. "Yeah, why not?" He rang the glass with a fingernail to get the bartender's attention, then pointed at his drink.
"Another," he told her. "Egg in it, this time." My gorge rose at the thought, but I kept the half-smile fixed on my face. "Breakfast of champions," I remarked.
"Fragging A," my newfound companion agreed. I looked around casually. "Where's Fitz? I wanted to buy him breakfast, too."
"Dunno." Pud shrugged. "He came back after dropping Teri, then he faded. Haven't seen him since."
I filed that away for future reference. Then I just sipped my drink in comradely silence for a few minutes, trying to ignore the grotesque slurping noises coming from my left.
"I'm trying to figure out exactly what happened to Teri," I said finally. "I think the medics want to know, too. How did it all go down?" Pud glanced over at me, and I saw incipient doubt in his eyes. "Teri doesn't remember dick about it," I added hastily.
He nodded at that, and the doubt went away. "Teri likes to run a couple of chips at the end of the day," he told me. "Last few weeks she's been doing something new."
"Do you know what?"
He shrugged expressively. "Nah, not my business. I stay away from that drek. I prefer real life, you know?" He smiled, showing his discolored fangs.
"So she was chipping last night..." I prompted.
"Yeah, like I said. I was drinking pretty good, so I'm kinda fuzzy about the time. I think it was about one that she started getting flaky."
"Flaky like how?"
He scowled a little, obviously slotted off that I kept interrupting him. "Like forgetting what she was saying," he said. "Like starting to say one thing, then halfway through kinda switching programs and saying something else. She knew it was happening, and it slotted her off at first, then she got drek-scared about it.
Next thing I knew she was shaking. I thought maybe she was on a bad chip, but I looked and she didn't have anything slotted." He grinned crookedly and show
ed me an egg-sized contusion behind his right ear.
"Teri didn't like me checking, so she clipped me up-side the head with a fragging brick. Not her style."
I nodded. "You're right. It's not."
"Then the shaking got so bad she couldn't stand. Every time she'd try, she just fell down. That's when we figured we had to do something. Like, we all think Ten's stone, even drekheads like Random. We didn't know where to take her. I think it was Fitz came up with the Brotherhood. Those love-junky guys are flaky, but word on the street is their clinic's the best."
"So Fitz took her in his car?"
"Not his really," Pud confided.
"He kinda borrowed it for the evening, you know?" I knew.
"Ten seemed to be shaking it off a little toward the end there, Fitz told me. But he didn't want nothing to happen to her so he took her anyway."
"Did he just drop her off at the door?"
"Nan, he went inside. Picked up some souvenirs, too." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object, which he tossed onto the bar. I leaned closer for a better look. It was a polished silver name tag on a velcro backing. Etched into the surface was the Universal Brotherhood's pyramid logo and the name "J. Bailey, R.N."
Pud chuckled. "Don't know how he got it. That Fitz, he cracks me up."
After leaving The Mill, I looped the conversation through my mind again and again. But no matter how many times I ran it, it shook out only two ways.
First, Pud's troll chummer Fitz did actually deliver a strung-out Theresa to the Universal Brotherhood free clinic sometime early in the morning. While there, he'd succumbed to a propensity for petty larceny and lifted Registered Nurse J. Bailey's name tag. Corroborating evidence was the tag and the fact that Pud seemed to genuinely care about Theresa.
The other possibility was that Fitz took Theresa somewhere else, and for some reason went to a lot of trouble to convince Pud that she was in the Brotherhood clinic. Corroborating evidence for that theory came from Ms. Frizz-and-Cleavage on the chapterhouse switchboard. Nothing else, really, Fitz's absence this morning wouldn't even qualify as circumstantial.
2xs Page 15
