Writers of the Future Volume 31

by L. Ron Hubbard

  From there, Rodriguez picks up the pace. He does at least a hundred push-ups on the carpet of his bedroom, runs up and down the stairs two at a time, assembles and disassembles his gun faster than anyone I’ve seen. The tasks are repetitive, the mind trapped in a continuum of exacting execution. The next scene shows Rodriguez running on the sidewalk. He glances at his body once. It confirms he’s wearing the clothes we found him in, establishing a time frame. He hops a chest-high chain-link fence like it’s nothing, dodges cars in a frantic burst across a busy intersection. He then runs past three young males in front of an apartment building. They’re perhaps a little older than him. I catch a sneak peek of their stereographic tattoos. Gang glyphs, visible only through a retinal overlay. Rodriguez stops and turns around with near inhuman dexterity. The largest of the three is goading him, making obscene, taunting gestures. The other two laugh, but in a blink, Rodriguez is on them. He smashes the first in the side of the head with his fist, the second in the Adam’s apple, the third in the side of the neck. It’s something I picture a Navy seal doing to enemy combatants. They’re down in an instant, squirming.

  I’m getting an adrenaline high watching the action. I want to deny it, but I can’t help but revel in Rodriguez’s ass-kicking abilities. I want to mimic his superpowers, to become invincible like him.

  The thrill ends the second I recognize the gas station. Rodriguez is running at full steam. Without missing a step, he pulls the Glock from his belt. A second later, the kiosk comes into sight. Officer Yee is holding a bottle of water, ready to pay the cashier behind the glass. He looks over to Rodriguez, mystified expression. Rodriguez slows to a walk. My heart is beating crazy in my chest. I know this feeling, this anticipation. The animal wants the prey to engage him. Yee holds off a moment longer, as if trying to rationalize what he’s seeing. He then goes for his duty weapon. Rodriguez blasts Yee in the face. The three of us gasp, Mullins adding in a “Holy shit!” I want to turn away, but I can’t. I’m captivated by Rodriguez’s inhuman display of savagery.

  Rodriguez takes a long moment to stare at his reflection in the kiosk glass. I feel like I’m looking at myself, carriage heaving to suck in more oxygen, a predator ready to maul his next victim. I clutch my chest. My heart is thumping like it’s going to explode. Mullins looks my way. “Parker, you all right?”

  I have to get out of this room. I need air.

  I’m becoming Rodriguez, mirroring his animalistic breathing, a hair trigger from snapping at anything that touches me or comes too close. I think Mullins senses it too, because he leans away.

  We let the rest of the scene play out—the arrival of the police cruiser, the shootout with the other two officers, the suspect’s violent death. It ends with the first image we saw of the canopy lighting, then speckled blackness. We’re all quiet, as if waiting for the end credits to the horror movie we just saw.

  Mullins is the first to say anything. He turns to Parekh. “You get all that?”

  “Everything. My God!” Parekh is obviously shaken.

  “‘My God’ is right.” Mullins wipes the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. “I swear, if that SOB weren’t already dead …” Mullins knots a fist, then relaxes his grip. He looks my way. He raises his hand, like he wants to place it on my shoulder, but drops it quickly. “You okay, partner?”

  “Fine,” I say. But I’m anything but fine.

  This is crazy, you know it?” Mullins has his jowls pushed up on his left hand, fat folds in his face bunched like a shar pei’s. He’s on his third can of energy water, the other two empty and crushed into pucks.

  We’ve been going over Rodriguez’s recording for almost four hours. Everyone on our floor has gone home for the evening, leaving the rest of the cubicle farm dark and quiet, except for us.

  Mullins is playing with his bowl of microwaved popcorn, circulating the kernels endlessly, his nervous energy eating away at my resolve. He points a greasy finger at the screen. “I mean, who gets this kind of front-row seat into a murder’s craziness, huh?”

  I replay the scene showing the dispenser hand-off between what I imagine is the drug dealer and Rodriguez. We’ve already run the still image against our biometrics database, searching through the collection of tattoos, scars and birthmarks. Fifteen potential matches were returned, not a single one quite like the knuckle scar in the still. The only thing we were able to determine were generic traits: male, late thirties to mid-forties, approximately five-nine in height, medium build, possibly Hispanic.

  Mullins downs the last of his water and burps. “Hey, I gotta go. Sandy is driving me crazy. She keeps pinging me to pick up Kevin.”

  “I thought this was her week to watch him.”

  “It was.” Mullins heaves himself out of his chair and grabs his blazer. He sighs heavily, the weight of life showing in his weary eyes. I don’t envy his situation. Both his exes can be a pain in the ass.

  “You’ll be fine,” I say. “Just think: you can knock back a couple after Kevin goes to bed.”

  He jiggles his big belly with a smile. “Yeah, that’s what I need.”

  I shove him playfully. “Go on, get out of here!”

  He tosses a goodbye hand wave and disappears, leaving me with the video of our dead suspect. My smile fades when I see the frozen image of the dispenser in the dealer’s hand. It not only reminds me that we’re no closer to figuring out who’s moving product on the street, but that I’ll be out of my own supply tomorrow evening. I begrudgingly turn off the monitor, sinking into a cesspool of disgust, most of it aimed at myself. What would happen if I were to just go on empty? It’s not like I’m addicted to the stuff.

  I catch myself licking my lips again.

  I bang the desk, angry. I need to fix this. And the only way I see how, is to do exactly what I’m not supposed to do.

  I park on Sutphin Boulevard, about a block from the Jamaica Long Island Railroad station. A little after eleven, and the streets are still teeming with pedestrians. It’s a shithole of a neighborhood, as mixed as a melting pot gets, mostly low- to middle-income, depending on which side of the block you’re on. My beat-up SUV is fine where it is. I push through the mangle of people walking by toward the subway and stores at the end of the street. I hear the L train in the background as I turn down an alley. I’d ended up going home after Mullins left, only to head out after reading Caitlyn a bedtime story and telling my wife that duty called. In a way, it’s not too far from the truth.

  I ring the bell to Apartment Fifteen on the steps outside a rundown tenement. I’m wearing a nondescript tee, jeans and sneakers, with a Mets baseball cap, brim pushed down over my forehead to keep a low profile. I’m mindful of the pair of gang members sitting on the stoop two buildings over. I can tell they’re tracking me as they talk to each other. They’re both wearing wife beaters and shorts that extend down to the ankles. I recognize the stereographic tattoos projecting in front of their chests, burning sigils of circles with exes for eyes. These guys are la hermandad de fuego, Brotherhood of Fire, a Dominican gang that controls this part of Jamaica; and judging from their dot rankings above the circles, I’d say low-level enforcement. The lanky one doesn’t even bother covering up the handgun with the taped grip peeking out from his waistband. He turns my way, and I sense a pingback through my retinal overlay. It’s a discovery ping, a way of saying, “Who are you?” I ignore him; don’t even move an inch to let them know I’m aware of what he’s trying to do. If I were on the job, I’d do my own active pingback, and pull up his rap sheet through our NYPD portal using the electronic signature from his own temporal lobe implant.

  The buzzer sounds just in time. The lanky one stands and whistles at me. He just wants to see my face. I quickly push through the door, pretending like I didn’t hear him, and make sure it locks before heading up the stairs.

  The building reeks of trash, and the hallway walls are filled with graffiti. How can anyone stand livin
g in a place like this? I knock once on the metal door of Apartment Fifteen. Reggie opens the door, but leaves the chain on. His one visible eye is looking at me, red-glazed, pupil dilated. He’s getting skulled, I’m sure. It’s a cheap high, requiring a Mindnet app you download to root the firmware of your TLI. The TLI fires a pulse every few seconds, flooding the brain with alpha waves. Stupid in my opinion, because you can get stuck in an endless loop, and eventually, a coma.

  Reggie wipes the dribble dangling from his lip. “Hey.”

  “You going to let me in?”

  He waves a catatonic hand. “Pockets.”

  It’s the same ritual every time. I turn my jean pockets inside out and lift my shirt to show him I’m not packing. He’s too stupid to ask me to lift the cuff on my pants. I’ve got a .22 handgun concealed in an ankle holster. Not much use against the guys downstairs though.

  “Okay.” He unlatches the chain and lets me in.

  I hate the routine—going inside, smelling that rotten Chinese food stink that never goes away, seeing the disarray of clothes, wrappers and dirty dishes everywhere. I’ve asked him a number of times to exchange product for cash at the door, but he wants me to wait on the dirty couch as he tries to remember where he stashed his supply of Switch. This time, I’m glad he let me in. I’ve got to talk to him.

  “Have a seat.” He points at the couch as he teeters toward the kitchen. I don’t bother sitting.

  Reggie is an odd-looking creature, real narrow head, with a leather-brown Columbian complexion, early thirties, although his compulsive drug use has him looking much older. He was a certified informant for us a couple years back, paid to report on local gang activity. He helped me make a buy, and that’s where I got a sample of the good stuff. He’s no longer on payroll, but he’s still my go-to guy.

  After a few minutes, he staggers back in. “Yo, I can’t find it.”

  It’s not what I want to hear. “You can’t remember where you put it? Maybe it’s in the bedroom, like last time, or the closet.”

  His drowsy face twists into a frown. “You telling me how to run my shit? I”—he yanks his hand haphazardly—“Yo man, I know what I’m doing. Don’t tell me how to run my shit, okay?”

  I let him go through the motions. Part of my brain says I’ve made a mistake coming here, the other part knowing this guy’s track record. He’s always come through for me. I’ve used other sources in the past, but Reggie’s stuff is hands-down the best, even if he’s out of his mind.

  His expression clouds over. Then he starts giggling like a child, snot bubbling from his nose. “Wait!” He snorts his way into a laughing fit. He catches his breath and then settles into a massive grin. “The bathroom! Yeah, it’s there.”

  He weaves out of sight, returning a minute later, waving a plastic dispenser with a Listerine logo, carrying a few more in his other hand. He tosses me the one with the logo. “Hope you like grape.”

  I exchange money for product, taking possession of the five dispensers, a hundred strips total. I’ve asked for more in the past, but Reggie claims it’s all he has.

  I click open each dispenser, examining the contents, making sure I’m getting a full supply per unit. The cardamom scent is subtle.

  “What, you don’t trust me?”

  I ignore him and shove the collection into my jean pocket. I pull out an equal sum of money as I gave him a minute ago, along with a folded printout from my back pocket. He looks at me and just blinks. “What’s this?”

  “I need to find someone. Here, take the money.” He palms it, still blinking in confusion. I show him the blowup image of the knuckle with the y-shaped scar. “I’m looking for a guy who deals, Hispanic, with a scar like this on his hand.”

  He holds up the printout and squints. He looks at me, then the printout, and darts his eyes back and forth several times. He stops and tosses it on the floor, along with the money. Bills spill over the dirty carpet. Damn!

  Reggie points harshly at me. “You crazy, man? What’s this all about? What do you want? I don’t work for you anymore!” He rocks back and forth, anger blossoming into mental discord.

  I hold up my hands neutrally. “Slow down, Reggie. I just want to know who he is, that’s all.”

  His rocking gets more pronounced. “What do you want with the Candyman?”

  The name rings a bell. A big-time street dealer with an even bigger ego, if memory serves me correctly. “I want to meet him.”

  Reggie grunts. “That’s crazy talk, ’cause he don’t want to meet you.”

  He gets his shoulders into the back-and-forth swing. Spittle flies from his lips. I’m worried he’s going to flip out on me and do something stupid.

  “You know him, Reggie? You know the Candyman?”

  He shakes his head manically.

  I keep my hands raised, a peace offering. “It’s okay, Reggie. Calm down, buddy.”

  The manic jerking continues. “No!” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sprawled printout between full shoulder swings.

  I should leave, cut my losses. But he acts like he knows the guy. I pump him for information. “You see this money? It’s yours. Just tell me who the Candyman is.”

  He snorts, getting his chin into the swing. “Candyman’s crazy. Yessiree. Crazy.”

  “You sure he has a scar on his knuckle? Did you see it yourself?”

  Spit dribbles down his chin, and his eyes are wide, as if in a trance. It reminds me of what a voodoo shaman from Haiti might look like.

  “Reggie?”

  He stops abruptly, gaze leveled my way, drool leaking from the corner of his crooked mouth. His voice turns gravelly. “You’re too slow for the Candyman, white boy.” He opens his mouth in a lunatic grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Craaaazee slow.”

  He’s not making sense, but I need to see where this leads. “Why am I too slow, Reggie?”

  “Why?” His gaze wanders off, lost in the mess of his apartment. He drops his voice to a whisper. “Why.”

  “Yeah, Reggie, why?”

  He almost sounds lucid as he speaks the next couple of sentences. “Because he’s got the mojo, that’s why. The best mojo, not like yours.”

  “And how to do I get a hold of this mojo?”

  He flicks his eyes at me, insanity restored. “You gotta go down the rabbit hole, white boy. You gotta go deep. And when you get there, the Candyman will be waiting. Yessirree. And when he catches you, he’s gonna snap you in half, ’cause that’s what he does when you’re too slow.” He cackles, gap in his teeth wide and ugly.

  He’s speaking gibberish. Pure, worthless trash. I bend down to retrieve the printout. He can keep the money, but there’s no way I’m going to leave the photo.

  Reggie shouts at the top of his lungs, scaring me stiff. “Don’t touch that!”

  I unclench my body. “Just grabbing my paper, Reggie. Money’s yours, okay? That was the deal. But this I’m taking.”

  He shakes his head like a rabid dog. “I don’t care. You’re leaving it. Get out!”

  “Look, Reggie, I’ll just take the paper and—”

  He grabs what I imagine is a paper bag stuffed with garbage from the ratty credenza behind him, but when I see the gun, I know better than to make a move. I swallow, watching his hand tremble with the revolver pointed at my chest. It’s a .357, enough to put me six below. I don’t have my vest, so there’s no point questioning whether it’s loaded.

  “Okay, Reggie,” I say in a surrendering tone. “I’m going to leave, all right?”

  “Yeah, you need to go.” He jabs the air with his gun. He’s got his index finger tugging on the trigger. You have to put some effort into pulling it, but I’m not taking any chances. My thoughts filter over to Suzie and Caitlyn, and I imagine them, for a split second, crying in the hospital room as I lie on a bed with a respirator.

  I back away. Reggie keeps
pace with a jagged twitch to his carriage. He then tosses his head back and talks to the air, in Spanish. “Sí. El blanco hombre sigue aquí.” He laughs his twisted laugh, and it chills me to my core. My panic button goes off.

  Who’s he talking to?

  You can do anything through the Mindnet without the other person knowing. Reggie definitely contacted someone, either through a thoughtlink or M-text. The fact he spoke aloud just confirms it.

  I’m out the door in a flash. It rattles closed, muffling Reggie’s hyena laugh. Down below, I hear heavy footsteps reverberating off the treads of the stairwell, and voices. I peek over the railing and see the Dominicans, guns drawn. One spots me and points. They break into a run. Shit!

  I sprint up two flights of stairs to the top landing and slam open the door to the rooftop. The gravel on the flat roof crunches as I scamper for cover. I duck behind the industrial cooler as the door shuts, and take out my .22 pistol. The one thing in my favor is that it’s dark, with the only strong light source behind me, by the door I exited. Ahead, the roof’s ledge rises a couple of feet, blocking some of the city lights, aiding in my concealment.

  I hurriedly scan my surroundings. I’m sandwiched between two apartment buildings. The rooftop of the closer one is about a half flight lower. I might be able to outrun these guys and get to the door on the other side. It’ll either be open, or I’m screwed. Calling for backup is out of the question.

  I get ready to launch, quickly estimating my jump and landing. The door swings open before I take one step. I hear the familiar whistle of the lanky Dominican. “Hey blanco, oh blanco,” he calls out in a singsong voice. He claps, then makes kissing noises. From the sound of their footfall, I can tell they’re splitting up. They know I’m hiding, and I know they’re hunting. I can fire a warning shot to buy more time, perhaps create a standoff. Except, when they realize I’m using a small-caliber weapon, it will be for naught, and I will have wasted a precious bullet.