The Big Smoke

by Jason Nahrung

  This was the vehicle he'd seen in Greaser's blood; this was the Needle's mobile base. Finally.

  Argent patted Kevin down, then said, 'He's in the back.'

  'We'll wait,' Mel said, and the girl said she would put the kettle on, and showed Mel and Greaser to a cosy dining area up the front before pointing Kevin toward a curtain closing off the rear.

  He was acutely aware of being unarmed as he pushed the cloth aside to reveal a couch similar to a dentist's chair, complete with overhead light. There was a basin and a UV microwave thing. A bank of shallow drawers labelled in print too fine to read at this distance.

  His focus was on the man sitting on a wheeled stool behind a narrow bench. He wore scruffy blue jeans and sneakers. Green-glowing eyes blinked at Kevin, from the shadow of a voluminous hoodie, and changed to frosty blue.

  The man pushed a takeaway meal to one side. Fresh blood scent tweaked Kevin's hunger.

  'Sit.' A thin hand, the fingernails glinting like mica, pointed to a plastic chair.

  Kevin sat. 'You're the Needle?'

  'And you're Kevin Matheson, mechanic extraordinaire.'

  'Not any more.'

  'Who referred you to me?'

  'No one, really. There was a guy mentioned you. Bhagwan. Up Rocky way.'

  'I know of him.'

  'He said you told him Jasmine Turner was setting up out west.'

  'Did he?'

  'Not in so many words, but that was the gist.'

  'Ah, the gist. And what else did he intimate?'

  'It means you know someone inside the VS operation; someone well connected, who could help me.'

  The Needle leaned forward, as though bringing Kevin into focus. The movement offered a better view of the man's face, the suggestion of criss-crossing scars on nose, forehead and cheeks; of thin lips and sharp-tipped teeth; an appearance rattish and avaricious. Kevin could imagine that pointed nose twitching, those eyes blinking, the claws preening whiskers as he weighed the amount of cheese to be gained against the obvious risk of the suspected trap.

  'Help you to get inside Thorn to kill the Strigoi. Is that right?'

  'Blake tell you that?' Kevin asked.

  The tattooist waved an enigmatic hand. 'Assuming I can provide you with the connections you need. What's in it for me?'

  'How about, no Strigoi?'

  'There is barely any Strigoi now. Since returning from her escapade in the west, she has fallen into bedlam. She is no threat to anyone.'

  'What? Are you sure?' Kevin sat back, rubbed his face. He knew the dangers of bedlam. But Mira had seemed so alive when they'd last met. Crazy, but alive.

  'You didn't know?'

  He shook his head.

  'Does this change things?'

  Did it? He didn't know. 'Can she come back?'

  'If anyone can, she can. I gather it's a little like being in a whirlpool. Throw someone a rope, they might be able to climb out.'

  'Bedlam or not, she's still got something I want.'

  'Are you sure she's in a position to give it to you? Or, for that matter, that you're able to—'

  'I have to try!'

  'Sounds to me as if you might be caught in a whirlpool of your own.'

  'Just get me inside Thorn. I'll worry about getting myself out.'

  The Needle leaned back, crossed his arms. 'In a fortnight or so, me and mine will be expected to provide Maximilian with a sample of our blood — a show of fealty. His ersatz bloodhag — Mira's apprentice, if you like — will sift those samples, potentially revealing this meeting. Just talking to you puts my life on the line.'

  Kevin stood, straining ears seeking sounds of betrayal.

  The Needle sounded tired as he gestured toward the door. 'Go home, boy. Live your life.'

  'I have no home.'

  From under the cowl came the hint of a grim smile. 'It's where the heart is.'

  Kevin leaned on the back of the chair, his grip tight, and said, slow and low: 'Mira killed my mother. In cold blood. Just because she could.'

  'Mira has killed many mothers. And fathers, and children.' He paused, as though distracted by something at the corner of his vision, something out of place he'd just noticed. 'Tell me about Danica.'

  'She's not on the table.'

  'I have a friend who would like very much to meet with her. To put to her a proposition. It would be in her favour, from what I gather.'

  'I'm not in a position to speak for her.'

  The Needle raised a finger. 'But you are in a position to set up a meeting. Give and take, favour for a favour: that's how our world turns, Kevin the mechanic. Some favours are worth considerable risk.'

  The deal sat between them, slippery and pointed, a black snake with two heads.

  Voices murmured on the other side of the curtain. The waves rolled hypnotically on the shore. A seagull called; further away, a plane droned. The everyday world filled the silence as Kevin and this strange man discussed something far from the everyday.

  Kevin slipped back into the chair. 'She won't kill anyone,' he said, hoping to disappoint.

  'That is not her talent.'

  'I could ask her, I suppose. But she'd need more information; she won't see just anyone.'

  'You get me a meeting with Danica, and I can ask my contact about getting you inside Thorn to kill her daughter.'

  Kevin flinched. The brutality smarted. Maybe it was as well his parents couldn't see him, this thing he had become. They would want justice, though, wouldn't they? He forced himself to calm, to un-fist his hands.

  'What if she won't agree to meet your friend?'

  'The risk to me is great. If Maximilian were to find out I had helped you when he's given express orders for your capture?' He made a sudden chopping motion across his own throat. 'No, in this present unsettled climate, I cannot afford to take careless risks. You are a wanted man, after all.'

  'Wanted by who?'

  'Whom. You've been in the papers. The police, VS, others looking to please VS: they all want you.' He shook his head, as though the idea amused him.

  Kevin studied the man, but he was contained, impenetrable. 'You didn't set me up, did you? At the tattoo shop?'

  'If I wanted to deliver you to Maximilian, I would have done just that. Most likely, your enquiries reached ears other than my own. Only the snitch and Johnny Slick know who betrayed you.'

  'The Fonzie dude.' Kevin nodded, seeing a way forward. 'Okay, where do I find him?'

  'You think he'll tell you who he was working for?'

  'One way or another, sure.'

  'Very well. Flash was a friend of mine, and a damn fine needle man. He taught me a lot. Slick's gang runs on the south side. Melpomene will show you where. I suspect they've gone to ground. Maximilian won't be happy that he crossed the river without permission — assuming he didn't have permission, of course. But I doubt the Old Man would've sanctioned it when he could've just sent his own troops to bring you in. No, there's a snake in the woodpile. Go, flush it out, and let me know what you find. Just remember — in a fortnight, I'm expected to tithe, and by doing so, or not doing so, I will be just as wanted as you.'

  'You'll do that though. You'll help me get Mira?'

  'One step at a time, boy. You bring Danica to the table, and yes, I'll help you. Just be sure you can live with the consequences.'

  Kevin held out his hand. The Needle shook it. Just like that, the deal was done. He should've been happy, right?

  THIRTEEN

  Kevin found the others outside. Greaser and the boy were throwing rocks at low-swooping flying foxes.

  'Fucking foxes,' Argent said. 'We'll have to move on soon.'

  Should they be doing that?' Kevin asked as Mel stood beside him.

  Mel twisted her lips, as though the answer was something caught in her teeth.

  'There are foxes, and there are foxes,' Greaser said.

  'You'll get your ears clipped one day,' Mel warned them before hustling Greaser to the car.

  'They're spies,' the Needle
's girl said from the motorhome's doorway, and when Kevin turned to her with his best what the fuck expression, she added, 'Kind of like drones?'

  'Jesus.' Kevin hunched against the flapping of wings as he strode to the Monaro.

  'All good?' Mel asked.

  'Good enough. Strange-looking bloke.'

  'That he is.'

  'He was eating something disgusting.'

  'Probably sangue reale. A kind of calzone made specially for him. He did the restaurant owner a favour once.'

  Kevin unlocked the car.

  Mel, looking across the roof at him, asked, 'So what now?'

  'Do you know where I'd find the Viscounts?'

  'Oh,' Greaser said.

  'Are you asking me to come with you?' Mel asked.

  'The Needle said you might.'

  Greaser clambered into the back seat. 'Blake won't like it.'

  Mel grinned. 'Well, in that case: better get our skates on.'

  They drove across the soaring southbound arch of the twin Gateway bridges, the river far below. Blue light washed over them as they went through a toll point. A sign told him the number to ring to pay if he didn't have a pass.

  'You're quiet,' Mel said.

  'Just thinking.'

  'It'll get ya down,' Greaser said.

  'What do you know about this Johnny Slick?'

  'He runs the Viscounts,' Mel said. 'They're von Schiller's villeins. Like the Needle's Snipes.' She gestured with a thumb to Greaser, who waved an acknowledgement. 'They pay tribute to Max in return for being allowed to live in Brissie.'

  'What kind of tribute?'

  'A tithe, they call it. Once a month — more often now — the blood van does the rounds, and everyone, vampires and red-eyes and hangers-on, gives up a pint or three for the Old Man.'

  'And what does he do with it?' Kevin asked.

  'Sifts it. Think of it like drug testing athletes. Keeping tabs on who's doing what, and who wants to do what. Hard to keep secrets in the blood.'

  'The rest gets made into brew,' Greaser said. 'Feeds the troops.'

  'So if everyone just didn't turn up—'

  'The penalty for not paying the tithe is death,' Mel said. 'Although you've arrived at an interesting time. Max is short of two things, thanks to you: cow's blood and soldiers. They mix bovine blood with human blood. Helps it go further. He's got his claws in the blood banks, the hospitals; his own blood bags, obviously, but still, he's got a lot of mouths to feed. When you took out Jasmine Turner's farm, coupled with the loss of Bhagwan's, well, supplies have been running low. There have been a lot of blood drives in the media, lately, as well as the tithes among us nightfolk.'

  'The natives are getting restless,' Greaser said. 'They don't like being tapped so hard.'

  'And Max has even fewer troops to enforce his law,' Mel said. 'The Debacle took out a bunch of his best troops. So now he's short on soldiers and short on food. He's on shaky ground.'

  'Why not just make more vampires?' Kevin asked.

  'He can't make just anyone. He likes men and women who are used to working in security, who are used to taking orders and keeping their mouths shut. Soldiers, police; skills he can use immediately.'

  'Thugs,' Greaser interjected.

  'It takes a while, as you can appreciate, for a newborn to come into its abilities. Families, friends, lives, all those loose ends; out with the old, in with the new. No, Kev, you have dealt him a serious blow; so serious, it just might've made the cracks in the operation you need to slip in and finish the job.'

  'I just want justice. That's all.'

  'You like Metallica, don't you, Kevin?'

  'Yeah, sure,' he said, taken aback by the sudden change of direction. 'The early stuff. Up until the Black Album; they kinda—'

  'All I'm saying is, you want Justice for All, sometimes you have to Ride the Lightning.'

  FOURTEEN

  The car park was perhaps half full. The way the vehicles were clumped around the stadium entrance suggested a drive-in theatre. Adding to the impression was the high concentration of classic vehicles: plenty of fins and white walls and wide American grilles.

  People clustered around the front doors, lit by an outline of naked bulbs: some goths, and boys with slicked-back hair and rolled-up sleeves and girls in billowing skirts, their hair coiffed in rolls and waves and fringes.

  'No guns,' Mel warned.

  'That's not good,' Kevin said, thinking of the weapons in the boot, feeling naked as they got out of the Monaro.

  'I'll stay with the car, eh,' Greaser said.

  'Keep the motor running.' Kevin passed her the keys.

  'Greaser really likes your car,' Mel said as they walked toward the arena.

  'She can take a number.'

  The gaggle at the entrance gave them the once over. Mel caught the bulk of their interest and Kevin didn't mind. Forget me, he willed them. I'm nobody.

  At the door, a guy in a tight shirt with a tattoo of a hot rod on his upper arm stopped them and pointed to the cashier.

  Mel pulled her necklace out and dangled the pendant in front of his eyes like a television hypnotist. A rose with a ruby, or some red stone, in the centre.

  The guy huffed and said, 'What about him?'

  'He's my plus one,' Mel said, and assumed the crucifix position so he could pat her down.

  Kevin followed suit.

  Having found nothing, the guy waved them through. He spoke into a walkie-talkie once they were past.

  'See if you can find Slick,' Mel said. 'He might be keeping low after last night's adventure.'

  'You're certain he'll show?'

  'There's Rabbit, his squeeze.' She pointed out a woman in a skimpy fluoro green outfit and wig. She was whizzing around the rink with a pack of skaters in pursuit. 'He'll be here.'

  'Maybe we should've waited till the show was over,' Kevin suggested as they moved through the crowd. The rink was circled with bleachers. Some braver fans sat on the edge of the rink with only a rope between them and the action. 'What's to stop Slick from taking another shot?'

  'Not in front of this many witnesses. I hope. But I agree, the sooner we're out of here, the better—'

  'Fuck!' Kevin swore and dragged Mel behind a hotdog stand.

  'We're in serious shit. That's Hunter. One of Mira's men.'

  The bastard was at the entrance, flashing an ID at the bouncer. He wore the same tired long-coat Kevin remembered from out west; possibly the same rumpled suit, though both would've been the worse for wear after their run-in. Must have a boring wardrobe, Kevin thought, though he supposed his own wouldn't have offered much variety: check shirts, black T-shirts, blue jeans.

  'His name isn't Hunter,' Mel said.

  'That's what I call him.'

  Hunter had a woman with him, also in black, but a lot smarter dressed; her suit shiny, and not a hair out of place in her severe bob cut. She didn't look the sort to let herself be patted down. And sure enough, they weren't, Hunter leading her toward a private box high up on the other side of the rink. Tinted glass turned the occupants to mere shadows.

  'Damn it, he's probably heading for Slick,' Kevin said.

  'We might have to settle for second best,' Mel said. 'Rabbit's been subbed off. Shall we pay our respects?'

  They made their way to the team's area, ducked under the rail and pushed their way through the huddle of players to where the girl with the green boob tube and hot pants sat on a chair behind the rope "suicide line".

  The girl watched them, her eyes shaded by the fringe of her wig and outlined in glittery green paint. Sweat glistened on her flesh. She still wore her knee and elbow pads, the outline of her helmet indented in her fairy floss wig. 'What are you doing this side of the river, Mistress Mel? Didn't pick you for a derby fan.'

  She seemed nervous, flicking her gaze toward the box at the far end of the rink. Her eyes glazed red as they caught the side light, then flicked back to their native blue as she focused on Mel. A tattoo of a dancing skeleton in a top hat stood ou
t amid the reds and greens and blues of Betty Boops and blue birds that sleeved her arms and shoulders. A white bunny peeked out from behind the boob tube.

  'Okay, Rabbit?' another girl asked as she handed her an American-style bowling jersey.

  'Fans,' Mel said.

  Rabbit confirmed with a tight, 'It's cool', as she stood to shrug the jersey on.

  Mel leaned in close and asked, 'Who sent Johnny northside last night, Rabbit?'

  'I dunno what you're on about.'

  'Mind if I take a sip, then?'

  'Are you kidding? Johnny will have your guts for garters if you so much as nick me!'

  'Johnny's in hot water, Rabbit. Tried to take the head off my chum here. And now he's got the VS hunting his autograph. See?'

  She waved at the box, where Hunter and his partner were badging a Viscount guarding the door.

  'If you cause any trouble here, you'll be in it just as deep,' Rabbit said, her voice trembling.

  'That we will. But you won't be around to see it.'

  The woman paled. 'You wouldn't dare.'

  'I take headhunting very seriously. So does my friend, especially when it's his head. Now who sent Slick after him? C'mon, it'll be our little secret.'

  'Shit,' Kevin said. 'I think Hunter's seen me.'

  The cop had walked to the rail and was staring at him. His partner was at his shoulder, seemingly torn between joining him and keeping an eye on the box. A waiter in white pushed past the woman, a tray of drinks balanced in both hands. Hunter walked toward the stairs, his partner hesitantly following as she peered in Kevin's direction.

  The box exploded.

  The hum of the crowd, the nasal commentary, ceased. A skater tripped and fell, tumbling across the track as the others pulled up in a confused mob.

  Smoke poured from the shattered stand. Hunter sagged across the rail. There was no sign of his partner.

  Rabbit tottered forward a few steps. 'Johnny? Oh my god, Johnny?'

  A drink seller in white trousers and shirt tossed his paper hat, pulled a handgun from his tray of goodies and shot two men guarding a side door.

  More shots crashed the numb silence.