The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  Two signs hung above the street level door. "Sardini Market" was painted in a graceful brush script; above it the name of Nickel's business blared in neon block letters: "Comings & Goings, Ltd." Elaborate signs aside, whitewashed and two stories tall, the building looked more like a flophouse than an office for one of the most powerful commodities brokers in the city. I had said as much to Nickel, and delighted in giving him a hard time over the state of his office. It had become something of a pastime of mine.

  "Return on investment!" Nickel would say in his always too-loud voice. "Cost per square foot! That's where it really matters, see? All the big firms spend thousands on their spaces, and for what? To impress clients concerned with the bottom line? Clients don't want to see their money being spent on fancy chairs, antique desks, tits, and short skirts. They want results and I deliver results, my boy. I deliver! I thrive in the cramped and don't waste their money on unnecessary resources. They can spend ten thousand lira a month for that elevated corner office overlooking Level Eight. I'll funnel that money into my next venture!"

  Nickel had an ambitious streak.

  The stairs that led to his offices were only accessible through the deli market on the first floor. It was small but clean and neat, offering a wide variety of groceries. A few aisles of wine, an aisle of canned goods, and a cold case stocked full of cheeses, milk, beer, cured meats, and other assorted and unique ingredients. The whole place smelled of rich foods and hearty wines. It made me hungry.

  Along the south wall was a glass counter stocked with all manner of fresh, handmade pastas, salads, and sandwiches. Near the western wall by the stairwell that led to the second floor was a small bar with three stools for customers.

  I gave a wave to Elizabeth Sardini, proprietor of the deli. Mrs. Sardini was human, and had to be at least a hundred. She was beautiful once, but time—as it always does—had worked away at her beauty like rain on a trail. She now stood stooped, wrinkled, smiling a smile that was absent a few teeth. Her eyes, however, were sharp, and they glittered with recognition as she saw me.

  "Waldo!" she said, her tone friendly even as her voice cracked. "It's so good to see you. So good. It's been far too long. Look at you!" She gestured at me with both her hands. "You're all skin and bones. Skin and bones! You lack color."

  "Hello, Mrs. Sardini," I said, smiling and looking around, grateful I was the only patron in her small market. She meant well, but having my name shouted out loud in public wasn't something I was really keen on at the present time. She must have not seen the news reports.

  "I saw you on the monochrome last night," she said, sadly.

  Guess she had.

  "I can't believe the police would be so wrong. There's no way you could be involved in any of that funny stuff. No way, no how!" She clapped her hands together and shuffled out from behind her counter and gave me a big hug. "It's good to see you. So good to see you."

  "Thanks," I said, returning the hug. "It's good to see you as well. Is August in?"

  "He is, he is. I think he has a client upstairs right now, but I am sure he'll send them away if you pop in."

  "Thanks," I said, moving toward the stairs.

  "Ah, ah ah! Not so fast. You need to eat. Look at you!" she declared, her eyes twinkling. "I have a delicious bolognese tossed with some of my handmade ravioli. Stuffed with cheese and sausage."

  My stomach rumbled. I hadn't settled enough to eat properly since my ill-fated attempt at Shuai Tan. Since yesterday the only thing I had to eat was a handful of roast walnuts from a street vendor that morning.

  "I suppose I can spare some time for your cooking." I smiled.

  Mrs. Sardini laughed delightfully. "You go up and see August. It's nearing his lunch time as well, and I'll just make an extra batch and you can eat with him."

  She shooed me up the stairs and shuffled behind her counter to prepare my lunch.

  Years earlier, Nickel had struck a deal with Mrs. Sardini: she would make his lunch, and he would cover half her rent. For Nickel it wasn't about the money—he had plenty, and even though he could eat cheaper pretty much anywhere else, there were other benefits of having what amounted to a live-in cook. Wining and dining clients being chief among them.

  As I stepped onto the second floor, a stout gentleman heading down the stairs brushed past me.

  "Excuse me," he said, politely. I nodded, and was struck with a sense of déjà vu. I turned and caught a glimpse of him disappearing around the corner. His coat. He was wearing a garish, close-fitting red coat with no collar, similar to the hand-me-down I had procured from Inox. A large tattoo dominated the right side of his neck. It was circular and familiar, and for a moment I thought it was a wagon wheel like mine before I realized it was the same design as the patch on my borrowed jacket: enclosed in a circle, eight narrow bars were arranged smallest to largest, hanging from a shared plane.

  I stood at the top of the stairs and watched the guy leave.

  Twice in one day? It was an odd coincidence.

  "Waldo? Is that you, Wal?" a loud voice jolted me from my hazy stare, emanating from behind the frosted door labeled Comings & Goings, Ltd. Main Office.

  "Come in! Come in! Carter's cross, Waldo, get your skinny ass in here!"

  I slipped past the door and entered August Nickel's office.

  The room was cramped. Boxes of documents were piled six feet high against every wall. Only the windows remained unobscured. August sat behind his massive second-hand desk, leaning back in a worn leather chair that seemed ready to break under his weight at any moment.

  August Nickel was a dauger. His mask, as his namesake, was heavy nickel, though it was dwarfed against his massive fleshy head. His eye holes were bigger than other masks, the mouth an open slot instead of the grate preferred by most dauger. Behind the mask his eyes were a rich brown, the same color as his desk, and the mouth opening always showed a row of bright white teeth like those windup mechanical dentures from the monochrome comedies. As with most dauger I knew, I always wondered what he looked like without his mask, but knew it would be rude to ask. Only dauger saw other dauger without their metal masks, and even then masks were only removed among close relations.

  "Ha!" said August, slapping his desk. "The escapee comes home to roost."

  I grinned and shook his outstretched hand. "Hello, my friend."

  "It's damn good to see you. You okay? I heard you were shot."

  "I'm fine. I found a dauger Bonesaw named Inox, and she patched me up."

  "By the Firsts," he swore, "a Bonesaw? You trusted one of those quacks?"

  I shrugged. "What choice did I have? Not like the city hospitals would have taken me in anonymously. Also, I'm broke."

  "You need money?"

  I nodded. "I'm good for it. Most of my possessions were taken when I was arrested."

  August opened a desk drawer and withdrew a stack of lira. He gave me half.

  "Here's five hundred. No, don't act like you don't need that much. Pride is overrated. Take it. Pay this Bonesaw—last thing you want is a Collector on your ass. You can pay me back when this is all sorted out."

  "Thanks," I said, pocketing the cash. "Really... I mean it."

  August waved a hand dismissively. "It's no big deal; as you said, you're good for it. So, care to tell me what exactly happened? The details in the monochrome news reports are always spotty."

  Settling in, I told my tale, sparing nothing. August, for his part, was quiet. Nodding at the right moments and asking clarifying questions the next. We took a small break when Mrs. Sardini brought our lunch. I wouldn't have been able to talk anyway. I shoveled the ravioli in my mouth, ravenously hungry. When we finished eating I wrapped up my story, finishing with the doctor and my stay in the flophouse.

  Nickel leaned back in his chair and studied me from behind his mask. "Shit," he said, the word hanging between us before his mind caught up with his mouth. "Shit, Wal. That's heavy stuff."

  "I'm sorry about your cousin. I had no idea."

 
; Nickel nodded his thanks. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened considerably. His normal flamboyant bluster was gone. "Felt like a punch in the stomach when Detective Bouchard told me."

  "I had nothing to do with her death. You know that, right? You know where I was."

  "I know, Wal. I know. You weren't in the city," began Nickel, his voice cracking. "She was a good kid, and talented. The earth ain't been graced with a better flutist in my opinion. Hit my family hard. Carter's cross, it hit me hard. Came out of nowhere and we were left dumbstruck. Who would want to kill Frannie?

  "My Ma was beside herself for days. She practically raised Fran. She was her sister's kid, see? When my aunt died, Ma stepped in. Kinda an ol' dauger custom, but Ma went all the way. Really stepped in and filled the role vacated by Frannie's own Ma. In a lot of ways Frannie was more like a kid sister to me than a cousin.

  He stared out the window for a moment before looking back at me.

  "We buried her in the family plot up near John Noble. Quiet spot. A nice warren."

  "I would have been there had I—"

  Nickel waved a hand, stopping me. "You were halfway back from Syringa. I know you would have been there, don't apologize."

  We sat in silence for a moment, our thoughts on Fran.

  "Carter's cross, I need a damn drink," he said, breaking the silence. He pulled a blackened bottle from a desk drawers. "I know you're partial to that vile vermouth, but you ever had hundred-year-old scotch?"

  "No," I admitted.

  "Me neither, so let's crack this open and toast Frannie."

  We did, and the scotch was excellent. I rolled it around my tongue and let its warmth replace the numbness I was feeling. I tried not to dwell on my lost friends, but failed. When I had drained the glass, Nickel offered me a refill. I graciously accepted.

  After our third glass I had a healthy buzz. Nickel looked across his desk at me. "So you came to me. I'm glad you did, but what help do you think I can give you? I don't have any pull with Lovat PD; even if I knew someone on the inside, what would you expect them to do for you?"

  Swirling the scotch around in my glass, I thought about what I wanted.

  "Nothing. I need to know who to contact at Wilem, Black & Bright."

  "Ha! There's really only one fella you can contact there. Both Wilem and Bright died before you were born. Peter Black is the only remaining partner."

  "Peter Black?"

  "Aye. Dimanian bloke. Older fellow. Shrewd businessman. He's good people, but keeps to himself. Been working the Lovat trade since before the day I hung my shingle. Does a lot of work in the archeology business and pre-Aligning salvage. I guess that sorta goes hand-in-hand these days with professors uncovering huge caches in cities buried during the Aligning."

  My mind went immediately to the massive crate I helped guide across the Big Ninety. "Know anything about his latest delivery?"

  Nickel pursed his lips and was oddly silent. His eyes seemed to focus on the wall behind me before he snapped back to reality. "That crate you were guarding? Not much. Know it was bound for some lab in Brookside. My guess is it's old tech; I know a few of the professors at the college are trying to backwards-engineer a bunch of old shit. See if they can't get it working again."

  "He acquire it in Syringa?"

  Nickel shrugged. "Don't rightly know."

  I waved my hand, my curiosity subsiding. "It's neither here nor there. How can I get in touch with Black? I'd go to the offices, but..."

  "...but there's no way you wouldn't get caught again."

  I spread my hands in defeat.

  "What you need is to contact his gate."

  "I beg pardon?"

  Nickel fished around in one of the desk drawers and brought out a small card.

  "His gate."

  When I still didn't get it, he spelled it out for me. "His assistant. Secondary channel. His gate. It's an old outfit term from back in the bygone. Zilla's her name. You want to talk to Black and avoid the traditional channels, you go through her. She's his eyes and ears, if you can call her that. Ol' Peter Black doesn't get out of the Arcadia much these days. Tends to run things from his suite and let his operation take care of the dailies."

  "She trustworthy?"

  Nickel snorted a laugh, his heavy shoulder rocking. "With me, sure. Does that mean she won't sell you upriver for a bounty? I can't rightly say. If you want I'll telephone her and put in a good word. Don't know how much it'll count for you."

  "How do I reach her?"

  "Telephone. It's the only way. She won't answer a telegraph. Number's on the back of the card." I flipped it over and saw Nickel's scrawl.

  "I appreciate it," I said, slipping the card into a pocket and checking the clock over his shoulder. I had been at the office nearly four hours. It was time to move on. Lingering didn't help my chances of avoiding capture. "I should get going. I've been here too long already."

  "You need a place to stay? You can crash in my spare back room."

  I shook my head. "I've put you and Mrs. Sardini in enough trouble as it is. I'd hate to see Bouchard drag you off for aiding and abetting."

  "I'll call Zilla immediately," Nickel said. "How can I reach you?"

  "I'll telephone later. I think I'll have to play it safe until I can get my life back to normal."

  "You sure you don't want to stay here?"

  "I'm sure. Thanks for your help, my friend," I said, rising from my chair and draining the last of my hundred-year-old scotch. I needed to keep my wits about me… but you don't let scotch like that go to waste.

  He stood and came around the desk, his heavy stomach quaking back and forth with each step. He grabbed me in a big bear hug, and I swear it looked like he had teared up. It meant a lot.

  "I'm glad as hell to see you safe, Wal. You take care of yourself. If you need anything, you just let me know. I'll pull any strings I can."

  "Thanks, August."

  "Don't mention it, kid."

  EIGHT

  "Hi, my name is, um, Waldo Bell and I'm one of the, er...partners of um, Bell Caravans, and I had some recent business with your employer, Mister Black. So...uh, the problem is, I am being accused of some crimes and er...when they were committed, I was on the trail from Syringa with a crate of yours. Inbound to Lovat. So uh, if you get this and could let your boss know I'd like to talk to him, I'd, um, appreciate it. Er... hello? I'll try calling later. This is Waldo Bell."

  I hung up the pay telephone with an angry clang. Fifth time I've tried making a call and gotten only a message machine. All I could do was hope Zilla would get in contact with her boss.

  Before returning to my bunk for the night, I telephoned Nickel's office. He answered and I explained where I would be crashing.

  "I'll ring you in the morning," I said. "Just to check in."

  "Be careful," he said, a worried tinge in his voice. "Level Two is rough territory, and a pitch den is rougher still. Where is it again? Corner of Third and what?"

  I told him, and then said, "I can handle myself with junkies. It's late enough, and most of them will be well into their next trip before they realize I'm sleeping in their midst. It's a good place for me to lay low."

  "If you say so."

  "I'll call you in the morning."

  "Do that. Stay safe, Wal," he said, hanging up.

  My visit with Nickel had raised my spirits, and it was nice knowing there were folks out there pulling for me. Having a friend in my corner made me feel good. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to get this over with and set things right.

  Stopping outside the telephone booth, I considered calling one of Wensem's neighbors. Wensem didn't have a telephone but one of them might. Maybe I could reach him that way.

  Something about this whole ordeal didn't sit right with me. Wensem was my partner, he was with me when we arrived back in town. My connection to these killings felt personal. All the people connected to this weird little mystery were related to me: old friends, business partners. Maybe he was involved as
well? Maybe he had his own problems?

  His voiced echoed in my mind: "I'll probably be unreachable for most of the time. I haven't seen my son, and I intend on spending as much time as possible with him and Kitasha."

  He lived way up north, past downtown and the swarming cops of Lovat Central, in a neighborhood called Reservoir. It would be half a day's travel at least to get up there and I had already spent too much time out on the street. With posters of my face showing up on street corners and lamp posts it would only be a matter of time before I was made. I had lingered on Level Three for far too long. I needed to keep moving and disappear, and the easiest place for that was right above the Sunk. Level Two beckoned and I was intent on hiding myself in the twisted makeshift hovels of its narrow streets.

  Still, I had to contact Wensem. I had to warn him. The pictures of Fran and Thad's bodies still haunted my mind. So I put in a call to his neighborhood's main switchboard. The operator was cool, and I did my best to dictate a message for delivery, warning Wensem and telling him that I'd try and contact him first thing in the morning.

  Hoping for a chance to feel normal, I bought a copy of the Lovat Ledger, the city's big paper. I prayed I didn't make the front page. When I saw I hadn't, a wave of relief washed over me. Last thing I needed was my mug on the front of every bloke's paper.

  I did, however, make the eighth page. "Killer on the Loose," the headline read, and it included a small image of me taken at the time of my apprehension. The quality of the paper's printer and the graininess of the police photograph made my features difficult to make out. I looked like any of the homeless Lovatines wandering the streets of the city: bearded, with long dirty hair and a dirty face.

  Feeling a bit more relieved, I tucked the paper under my arm and returned to my bed for the evening.