Perfect Girl
A usual unsual day.
I’ve never understood the point of mood-music alarm clocks. I mean, in a choice between “Betty Blue and the Fandangos” and a nice sharp ringing, which is really more likely to encourage you out of bed in the morning?
In fact, the sole reason I was woken up that soon-to-be-highly-eventful Tuesday by the distressed warbling of “Dani Detroit” – that week’s favourite makeup caked bimbo – was that techno-society demanded it. When you’ve got an oven that can cook roast chicken in eighteen different culture-specific styles, why would you have an alarm clock that goes “beep”?
Not that I’ve ever cooked roast chicken in one style, let alone eighteen. I’m a busy man. Which is also the reason that the offending alarm clock (and yes, the singing was fairly offensive) was set to go off at six. No person who isn’t busy should ever experience six o’clock in the morning. As it turned out, I wasn’t to experience it that morning either. For reasons best known to the god that cursed us with Microsoft, the damn thing had reset itself to half past eight. Sometimes I really hate technology.
“Are you awake?”
And then I remember why I don’t.
“Weren’t you supposed to be meeting a car dealer this morning?”
It was only phrased as a question to be polite. Heidi knows my schedule better than I do.
I rolled over to face her. If the day was going to be difficult, I might as well start it with a nice view. Heidi was lying on her side on the temper-foam mattress, one slender arm propping up her head, like a French postcard. Her gently curved body, half covered by duvet, was otherwise laid bare for viewing, her flawless skin zebra-striped by the slatted blinds. Heidi doesn’t understand the point of pyjamas.
“Well?” she said, then giggled, the sound calculatedly girlish and playful. Her mouth formed the smile, but elsewhere the perfect skin was taught, the corners of her eyes stubbornly refusing to wrinkle into crow’s feet. The eyes themselves were just a little too blue in the iris, just a little too white in the whites. Their gaze rested on me spirit-level steady.
Oh, and the fact that her supporting hand was bent just slightly beyond ninety degrees backwards from the wrist was also a good clue that something wasn’t quite right. Human joints don’t normally like those sorts of angles.
“It’s called a Microsoft-enforced lie-in,” I said at last. “It happens when Gates Junior doesn’t pay his code-monkeys properly.”
“Oh,” said Heidi. Apparently she didn’t have a programmed response to that sort of statement, because she returned to her default smile.
“But now we’re getting up,” I continued. “And I’m going to be late.”
“You want me to make you breakfast?”
I sat up and cracked my back. “Just a coffee, thanks.”
Heidi got out of bed and walked, silent and naked, over to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. I leant on one arm as I watched her leave. Life can only be so bad when mere money can buy you a view like that.
I was dressed and halfway to the door when Heidi brought out the coffee. I dress fast and forget small details faster.
“I don't mind if you don't want it,” the perfect voice said.
Which of course meant I burnt my mouth trying to gulp it down. You know you've been working around computers too long when you're guilted-out by an electronic voice. With my first injury of the day already in place, I opened the door and narrowly avoided receiving my second.
“Oh,” said the visitor. “You're in.”
My new friend and I looked at each other for a moment, and then at the crowbar that had narrowly missed my face. The man coughed and casually held it behind his back. Aside from the barely-legal hunk of metal, the man possessed a black woolly hat, a squashed sort of face and a grim expression.
“Thought you had a meeting this morning,” he said.
“Alarm clock failure,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Oh, sorry,” said the hat-owner. “I work for Uncle Jack.”
There was a mid-length pause. The sort where everyone has enough time to process the situation, with not quite enough time to properly think what to do about it. Then I threw the coffee mug at him.
It was only after the resulting smash that I remembered the delicate forget-me-not patterning denoted a gift from my mother. She was going to kill me come Christmas time. Then again, the man with the bloodied face drawing a gun from his jacket pocket seemed intent on killing me that very second. You've got to have priorities.
“Look,” continued the most immediate threat to my existence. “Before I kill you, I just need to know...”
The mistake had been in the first part of that statement. I made a run for the bedroom door. As the first shot neatly disintegrated my bleeding-edge, wide-and-tall-screen TV, I cursed, unfortunately not for the first time, the inaccessible location I kept my gun.
Still half thinking about the insurance on the TV, half pondering a better place to keep a semi-automatic, I almost collided with Heidi in the doorway. She's been well briefed when it comes to visitors, and so was now carefully wrapped in a cream bathrobe.
“Is everything...” she began, then ducked with me as madman-at-the-door shot over our heads. Even androids have a sense of self-preservation.
“Not really,” I said, then dived past, rooting under the bed for cold metal backup.
“Get out of my way,” came the voice from the next room. For a split second I actually expected Heidi to protest.
“Oh, sorry.”
Then I remembered.
“Heidi, stay where you were.”
“OK.”
A few words my mother wouldn't have approved of spilled through from the living room. I wasn't really paying attention. I'd found the gun.
There was a yelp followed by yet more curses as I scrambled back to my feet. By the way our visitor was shaking his left hand, I assumed he'd tried to hit Heidi. She's not soft all over.
A gun between the eyes settled the matter.
“Now,” I started. “Tell me what...”
Or would have if Mr Trigger-Happy had had an ounce of sense. I was midway through the sentence when the dangerous hand started to move. I tried not to think about the carpet-cleaner's bill and squeezed the trigger.
Heidi looked in apparent puzzlement at our new floor ornament.
“Does he need a plaster?”
I tucked the gun into my belt. “Like a hole in the head. Now get packing.”
“Are we going somewhere?” The query was toned to be quietly optimistic.
Staring absent-mindedly at the blood soaking slowly into the carpet, I considered the question, particularly noting the “we” part of it. It'd been almost a year since similar floor-stains had prompted me to ditch my previous partner. Better to risk one life than two, and all that jazz. But androids aren't exactly “alive” in the traditional sense, and an extra pair of obedient hands is always useful, and...
Oh, why not.
“Yes,” I said. “We're going somewhere. And we're in a bit of a hurry.”
“What do we need?”
Time to be very specific. “Two changes of clothing for me. Two more for you. One toothbrush, one razor, the first aid kit from the bathroom, and whatever cash is in the safe.” I considered the list for a moment before adding, ”And a pack of HobNobs.”
After pausing a moment to make sure I wasn't going to add anything else, Heidi left to go fetch a bag, stepping nimbly around the expanding pool of blood like a ballet dancer. I, somewhat less nimbly, dived back under the bed for my paperwork. The unmarked white envelope went straight into my back pocket. Unmarked to make it less conspicuous. White to remind me it's not a bill. Next was ammo. As I tugged the rubber-banded magazines out of their brown paper bag, I wondered whether the list should have included a bottle of brandy. It was fast turning into a “drinking-before-noon” kind of day.
Outside in the not-so-early morning sunshine, I stood for a moment to make sure I had everything. Insurance: back pocket. Gun: hidden under back of jacket. Household android: dressed to be suitably casual and standing patiently. Surgically packed holdall: across back of aforementioned android. I put on my favourite mirrored sunglasses against the glare. All set.
The next job was to find my vehicle in the underground car park. There are only two enclosed spaces it is possible to routinely lose an ocean blue BMW. One is my block's car park. The other is the Tardis. And I'm still unsure on the second one.
Car located, I crouched down to check underneath it, spent a few moments contemplating the mysterious package taped to the fuel tank, and elected to call a taxi.
“Where to, mate?”
Taxi drivers come in one of two varieties. The first has lived in the deepest, darkest depths of the cityscape since he was but knee-high to a grasshopper, and so has a knowledge of the local area that borders on a psychic ability. The second is from Poland and uses a satnav. I scoured the driver's voice for any trace of an accent before proceeding cautiously.
“Do you know the Scarlet Hotel?”
“On the corner of the Avenue and Smith Street? Opposite the Italian with the glass grapes in the window?”
I relaxed back into my seat. “That's the one.”
“Righty-ho. Be about a fiver.”
“Great.”
The driver had a round chin, bristled with dusky stubble, and a beer belly to be proud of. He handled the car like an ill-tempered dog, slinging it round corners with the sort of force usually pre-empted by the words, “This is going to hurt you more than than it hurts me...”
I used the short journey to ponder a next move. If Uncle Jack was onto me, then the General wouldn't be far behind. The two men have never exactly been buddy-brothers, but if there's one thing mobsters hate more than each other, it's rats. And what do you do when you discover you have a rat problem? You call out the rat-catchers. Two of them in this case. Leaning with head-turning casualness either side of the entrance to the Scarlet Hotel, hands resting against the bulges in their jacket pockets.
My brain clicked back into gear.
“Keep driving,” I snapped to the taxi-man.
“But it's just...”
“I said keep driving.”
The driver shrugged. “Your money.”
As the black cab continued past the hotel, I spotted a third rat-catcher parked in a white van further up the road. All three men were in grey suits and black leather gloves. The General's grunts, placed with the great man's usual unnerving accuracy exactly where I wanted to bolt to.
“Heidi,” I said, going for my mobile. “Remember the license plate of that van on the right.”
“OK.”
At least she seemed happy. Then again, unless told otherwise her default expression is one of quiet contentment. I find it quite soothing in times of stress.
“Right,” I said, flicking the phone open. “Here's what I want you to do. Dial three nines and ask the nice person for the police.” I passed her the device. “Tell them there's a suspicious white van parked on Smith Street and give them the plate. Say you think they might be...” I waved a hand vaguely. “Socialists or something. Got it?”
Heidi nodded. “Got it.”
Whilst Heidi calmly threw a spanner in the works for the General's footsoldiers, I tried to ignore the increasingly curious looks the taxi driver was giving us in his rear-view mirror. Time to leave.
Standing back on the pavement, I asked the driver the cost of the journey before calmly handing him double.
“Not a word, eh?” the man chuckled as he tucked the money away.
I waited for him to drive off before getting out my phone again. The bloody thing has more buttons than the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, but I eventually managed to find the voice recorder.
“Hey Ed, it's me. You know, the bastard-son-of-a-bitch who stole your Jag. Look, I've got a favour to ask. A few favours actually. And to make sure there's no hard feelings, I'm bringing a present. Meet me at the back entrance in ten minutes.”
I paused to think for a moment before adding, “Oh, and this is Heidi. Try not to damage her. The warranty ran out last week.”
Clicking the record function off, I turned to Heidi. “Alright, can you remember the way back to the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you can. Now, I want you to walk back there and go to speak to whoever's in reception. Tell them you need to speak to Mr Green. If they say he's busy or out, tell them it's important. Don't leave until they let you see him. When you do, hand him this...” I passed her the phone. “...and tell him to press the red button. Then do as he says until I arrive. Got that?”
The crafted face was calm with a subtle smile. I might have been giving her a shopping list.
“Got it.”
Taking off my sunglasses, I gently put them over her tell-tale too-white eyes. “Good girl.”
Heidi on her way with the bag, I headed inside the car park. Time for some minor engineering. The target I settled on was a silver Merc, titanium hubcaps still mercifully attached. Ed has always been more of a Jag man, but the Mercedes had the advantage of a higher under-carriage. Crawling around under cars is made so much more bearable if you actually have room to scratch your nose.
My key-chain multi-tool soon had the cover off the main computer. I counted down the chips with my index finger, smashing the fourth one with the point of my house key. With a disappointed groan, the car's central locking powered down. Thirty-second's more fiddling and the engine grumbled into life. I honestly don't know why people trust these things.
Despite the car, Ed didn't exactly look thrilled to see me when I pulled in at the back of the hotel.
“I kinda thought you'd take the hint when I stopped returning your calls.”
I leant back against the side of the car. Ed hadn't changed a bit in six months. Same greased back brown hair. Same dusting of designer stubble. Same pinstripe suit worn (illogically) over an eye-scalding Hawaiian shirt.
“What d'you bloody want this time?”
Oh, and same bountiful personality. I opted for a brotherly smile. “Like I said, a couple of small favours. First of which is a comfy seat and a stiff drink.”
Ed sniffed and ran his eyes over the Merc. “I suppose the car's for me.”
I slapped the silver bodywork. “That it is. I saw it and thought of you.”
The corner of Ed's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “For the sake of my lawyer's blood pressure, I won't ask to see a receipt.”
Ed keeps private rooms in all of his hotels, for business meetings and the like. The Scarlet being his favourite, hers is host to Ed's many and growing “antique acquisitions”. The glass chandelier, broken jukebox, and fake tiger rug I remembered from my last visit. The wing-back chairs, however, were new . And bloody comfortable.
“So...” Ed took a sip of his drink. “What sort of trouble is it?”
The contents of his glass was a clear liquid, which Ed liked to tell people was vodka, but I happened to know was gin and tonic. I'd turned down the house-wife's ruin for a good dose of port.
“The usual,” I replied, accepting the drink from a wheeled android. “People want me dead and I rather prefer life.”
Looking up, I noticed Heidi watching the server as it trundled off, empty tray balanced perfectly on three rubber-tipped fingers. I wondered what processes were ticking over in her artificial cranium.
Ed chuckled into his glass. “Don't we all?”
I sipped the port. It was exceedingly good. A hotelier's nothing if he can't keep a decent cellar. “Yeah, life can be fun.”
“I was thinking more about wanting you dead.”
“Ah.” I swirled the dark liquid in the bottom of my glass. “Still raw about the Jaguar then.”
“A little,” the man admitted. “What happened to it in the end?”
“Ran it off a pier, I'm afraid.”
Ed's thin face winced, making me wonder if a lie would have been gentler. He took a gulp of gin and tonic.
“Where?” he said flatly.
“Brighton.”
“Where precisely?”
Spotting an opening, I pounced. “Help me stay alive for another week and I'll show you.”
It took a lot more negotiating than that. As always, money got involved, mostly in promises. But finally we shook hands. Verbal contracts may not be worth the paper they're written on, but they've always done me fine. The small print on this one was the loss of my protection.
“Gun?” I carefully blanked my face. “What makes you think I have a gun?”
Ed folded his arms. “The fact that you never travel unarmed, or maybe the strange bulge in the back of your shirt. Pick one.”
I smiled. “Come on Ed...”
“No guns in my hotel,” he snapped. “Now hand it over.”
I didn't argue further. As I turned to follow the porter, Ed spoke again.
“No Lucy, I see.”
I gave a stale laugh. “We split almost a year ago, Ed. I thought someone with your exquisite finger on the pulse of this city would've got the news by now.”
Ed smiled. “I got the news. I just thought someone with your very good brains would've come to their senses by now.”
“Why?” I made my smile more playful. “You think she's the best I'm going to get?”
Ed's returning smile wouldn't win any Oscars. “If you can't work it out,” he said. “I'm not going to tell you.”
I decided not to answer. Arguing with Ed Green-fingers is a bit like boxing smoke. You could send yourself blue in the face and still feel like you hadn't even made contact. So I kept walking.
“Just one more question,” said Ed as we reached the lifts.
“Yes?”
I glanced back to see him considering my gun, as if evaluating it for sale.
“I own five hotels,” he said. “All of which I visit personally. How did you know I'd be at this one?”
I smiled. “If you can't work it out, I'm not going to tell you.”
I couldn't help feeling like a shelled snail as Heidi and I traipsed up to our hotel room. I don't especially like using guns – far too much clean-up involved – but just having one to hand is comforting when business gets difficult. Still, the Scarlett is fairly safe. Ed is well known in below-the-table circles, mostly by his nickname, Green-fingers. “Green” for his surname, and “fingers” for his habit of breaking them off those who rob his hotels. Which was, incidentally, how we met. Ah, the memories.
“Do you want me to unpack?”
I sank back on the double bed, letting the soft mattress soothe away the tension in my spine. The room's décor was less soothing, a harsh mix of reds, greens and golds, with a winding pattern of thorny vines circling the four walls.
“Don't bother for now, Heidi,” I answered. “Just leave the bag in the corner.”
“OK.”
There was a thump as she put it down, followed by soft footsteps across the thick-pile carpet. The mattress sagged a little as Heidi lay down on her side next to me. Light as a fairy, she walked her slender fingers from my belly-button to my neck, before leaning over to plant a kiss next to my Adam's apple. I sighed as I nudged her hand away.
“As tempting as it is to let you distract me, I really need to think.”
“Oh. Sorry.” The android rested her head against my shoulder. “What do you need to think about?”
I stared up at the ceiling. My reflection stared back. Who puts mirrors above beds these days?
“How I'm going to get out of this mess,” I said.
“Mess?” the voice was politely questioning. A request for a database definition.
I sighed. Retrieving my sunglasses from the android, I tucked them into my top pocket. “Mess, in this case, meaning a bunch of very bad men who want me dead.”
“Bad men want you dead?”
“That's right.” I peered at her out of the corner of my eye. “Do you even understand what 'dead' means?”
A moment's pondering. “Dead, adjective. No longer alive; no longer relevant or important; lacking activity or excitement; not functioning.”
I laughed. “That'll do I suppose.”
In the mirror, I saw Heidi's reflection smile. She seems to like it when she makes me laugh, though I doubt she understands what the joke is. Apparently sensing the improvement to my mood, Heidi wrapped an arm around my chest.
“So,” she said, voice full of sweetness. “What do you do when you meet bad men?”
I tweaked her polymer nose. “You shoot them in the head. Then they stop being bad men and turn into very well-behaved corpses.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I grinned at her mischievous expression, then shook my head. She has algorithms for conversation. As long as you stay within the bounds of what she can keep up with, it's almost like talking to a person. Someone without preconceptions or prejudices. No opinions except what you give them. Nothing like a person at all really. At least, nothing like...
A knock at the door stopped my thoughts drifting any further into shark-infested waters.
“Come...” I was half-way through the syllable when the door opened. I sat up as Ed strode in. He did not look like a happy bunny.
“Hey, Ed,” I started. “Lunch al-”
“I've got the General's men in the lobby,” he snapped.
Hoping to God I was being subtle, I nudged Heidi in the direction of the bag. “Really?”
“Really.” The eyes were narrow. The voice was in 'not-amused' mode. “And Uncle Jack's on the way.”
“Ah. Well, you see...” I flicked my eyes away from Ed for a split second. Heidi was picking up the holdall. Good girl.
“I don't have the manpower for shit this deep,” Ed continued. “And even if I did, you haven't got the money to make it worth my while.”
“Look...” I started.
“I mean...” Ed didn't seem to have heard me. “Jesus Christ! Two big bosses in the city, and you manage to piss off both of them!”
Dragging my gaze away from where Heidi was standing ready, I took in the hotelier's sun-starved face. It suddenly struck me that tough old Green-fingers was scared. Not a comforting thought. “I guess I just have a way with people.”
“That you do,” said Ed. He rested a hand meaningfully over his back pocket. “Unfortunately, you're not the only one.”
I flexed my knees, ready to duck and run. “I thought the deal was you help me live.”
“I am.” With a flick of his hand, Ed sent something spinning through the air towards me. I snatched it out of the air. It was my gun.
Ed's mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “You've got five minutes to make yourself scarce. After that I let them up here. Clear?”
I tucked the weapon into my trousers. “Crystal.”
Turning to leave, Ed called back over his shoulder, “And I'm still expecting directions to that Jag you drowned.”
I straightened up. Five minutes. I could do five minutes. Probably.
“Heidi...” I began rolling up my sleeves. “Drop the bag and help me strip the bed.”
Four minutes later, I estimated we were about two minutes away from being set. The tastelessly decorated hotel room had been systematically turned upside-down, leaving almost all the moveable furniture stacked against the door. Somewhat disappointingly, this didn't amount to much. Ed operates under a “that-which-is-nailed-down-can't-get-nicked” line of thinking. Even the double bed was screwed to the floor. The mattress, however, was perfectly mobile, and had thus already been thrown out of the seven-storey window.
After a minute or two of dithering, I'd stood one of the decorative chairs on the bare slats, gaining myself enough height to push up one of the ceiling tiles. Taking the white envelope out of my back pocket, I shoved it through the gap and let the tile fall back into place, but not before removing a black leather wallet. You've got to have some insurance left. After that it was a simple case of...
“Hey!” A thump on the door. “We know you're in there!”
Well, now I know you're out there.
Tightening up the knot of bed-sheet around the light fitting, I nodded to Heidi. “Time to leave.”
A heavier thump on the door signalled that someone had applied their shoulder. The chair tucked artfully beneath the handle creaked, but held. After checking the wallet was secure in my back pocket, I retreated towards the window, paying out the rolled-up sheet. Heidi reached me as I stepped up onto the window-sill.
“Ready?” I asked.
She wrapped her arms around my stomach, her grip just strong enough to be uncomfortable. Still, it was about to get a whole lot worse. I took a deep breath, then pushed off backwards.
The light fitting held for two abseiling-bounces down the outside wall before giving way with a violent snap, though not half as violent as the curses emanating from the window above. I forced myself to relax as the pair of us were greedily snatched up by gravity. With only two floors left to fall, I'd pretty much convinced myself it wasn't going to hurt. I was wrong.
Even the mattresses at Ed's hotels aren't designed to take the sort of force that the combined weights of a human male, an android and their luggage can provide. The springs twanged in defeat as I wobbled back to standing, lungs still considering whether they wanted to breathe in ever again. Heidi, quite naturally, was fine.
“Where are we going now?” she asked politely as I tried to encourage my airways back into life. Leaving one hand to rub my abused back, I used the other to point down the alley that ran alongside the hotel.
“That way,” I rasped.
I could only manage a zombie-like stumble at first, but three gunshots from above miraculously restored my ability to run.
The cut-throughs and corners of the city are a creaky, crumbling maze of walls and boarded windows, populated by small-time shifters and nicotine sneak-outs. The perfect hiding place for any rat. As long as you don't get...
“GOTCHA!”
...cornered.
The owner of the big voice and shiny knuckle-dusters could only have been one of Uncle Jack's lot. No pawn of the General would dare do a job of any sort with curry stains down his front. These stains were likely to be fairly recent. At least, going by the stench of chicken vindaloo on the thug's breath.
I dodged the metal-capped fist and administered a sharp punch to curry stain A, right on his solar plexus. The approximate sensation was of punching a sack of concrete. I swear I could see seismic waves moving across the surface of my assailant's enormous gut. Then stars as the non-metal hand skimmed my brow. Handily, my half-collapse onto my knees meant I ducked under the next blow with the knuckle dusters. Through a wheeling cosmos, my common-sense flagged up an important point.
“If you know what's good for you,” spat the curry-thug. “You'll lie down.”
I tugged the gun out of the back of my trousers and pressed it against the nearest target. My grip was bad, and the weapon kicked like a mad horse as it fired. At such close range, it hardly mattered. As the thug folded over his splintered knee, I forced my legs to straighten up, gun raised to shoulder.
“Good to see you taking your own advice,” I muttered to the prone man.
I stopped feeling so clever when I realised just how loud the gunshot must have been. So much for a quiet escape.
“What was that?”
“It came from over there.”
The voices were distant, but not that distant. Heidi looked around, as if trying to discover their source.
“Are they trying to find us?” she asked.
I licked my lips. “Yes, Heidi. They're trying to find us. And we're trying to run away. It's like a game.”
That sparked her interest. “A game?”
I tried a rusty door on one side of the alley. Locked. “That's right.”
A mischievous giggle. “I'm good at games.”
I paused, then re-examined my wording. “Ah, not that sort of...”
Feet. Lots of them. And the satisfied clunking of a pump-action shotgun.
Shit.
“Alright, Heidi,” I began, thinking fast. “The game is, we need to get back to the main road as fast as possible. Without being caught.”
“OK.” Smiling, the android took my hand... “Come on.” ...then almost ripped it off as she accelerated down the alley, piston-driven legs driving against the concrete. Unfortunately, she was heading straight for the approaching men.
“Heidi,” I started. “I don't think you've quite...”
She screeched to a halt, thought for a moment, then dived down a gap between two buildings. It was barely wide enough for the holdall still across her back. I've never been that good with tight spaces. Mother claims there was an incident with a wardrobe when I was six. At least we were out again fairly quickly, into a completely identical alley.
“Heidi, where are you...”
A precisely girlish giggle. “You'll see.”
She'd gone into teasing mode. It is quite possible I had only myself to blame. Two more alleys passed before my mental map clocked something of importance.
“Left here, Heidi,” I said. “I think we'll drop by the Lady Dog.”
The Lady Dog, in case you're wondering, is one of the city's more obscure clubs. Tucked just far enough from the main road to be unfindable to those without a guide, entrance is via a single, iron-backed door, guarded day and night by one of a selection of big-dinner men. You know, the ones who really did eat all their sprouts when their mother told them to. And probably the table as well. They keep out the “wrong sort”, a category with inclusion rules as obscure as Ed's tastes in interior décor.
Past the door, the club is a nest of round tables and cosy alcoves, with a bar at on end and a stage at the other. The windowless walls and low lighting give it a feeling of perpetual evening, supported by the bar staying open twenty-three hours out of twenty-four. Come real dusk, the place would be jam packed with more shady characters and under-table-dealings than a meeting of the United Nations. Even at this early hour, two men in bomber jackets were bickering like a married couple over a plastic sandwich bag filled with something white. Flour probably, by the way the more red-faced of the two was shaking it.
Altogether, the Lady Dog caters for a very particular type of customer. The type that prefer quiet conversations away from police microphones. Oh, and barely-dressed girls. One of whom was stretching out her hamstrings as we arrived.
“First show doesn't start until two,” she informed us, forehead pressed against her shin.
“Don't worry, I know,” I said. “Just popping in for a sit-down.”
The girl straightened up, tucking a few strands of bleach-ravished hair back into the crocodile clasp.
“Oh,” she said. “It's you.”
Then I recognised her. The chestnut hair was gone, the pale skin was bottle-browned, and the grey eyes were hidden behind sapphire lenses, but nothing short of radical surgery could disguise Lucy's nose.
I looked down at my chest. “So it is me. Who'd have thought it?”
Lucy sniffed. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said. “Prick.”
Not for the first time, I wondered if she could sharpen things on that nose of hers. Maybe her tongue.
“I never suggested you did,” I said, glancing towards the bar. A metal-boned android was polishing the woodwork, its legless torso shunting up and down the rails it was attached to. I wondered if a second port before midday would be enough to classify me as an alcoholic.
“So,” said Lucy, planting the sole of her foot against the wall to stretch out the other leg. “Who's the blond?”
The very presence of Lucy always seems to slow my brain down. It took me a moment's frowning to remember Heidi, standing silently at my back.
“My sister,” I heard my voice say.
Another sniff. “Funny.” Lucy replaced her foot on the floor. “You don't look much alike.”
This was fast approaching an excruciatingly awkward situation. I decided the best forward strategy was in escape. He who fights and runs away...
“Well,” I said. “Nice running into you again. I think I'll just...” I started towards the robot-attended bar, Heidi right behind me.
“Hey,” said Lucy. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your sister?”
There was a developing snarl in that voice. I wondered if deer felt the same sinking feeling in their stomach as the wolves circled.
“Look, I'm in a bit of a...”
I turned back around to find Heidi and Lucy facing off. It was with a cutely baffled expression that Lucy's artificially blue eyes met Heidi's fake-all-through ones. Then the penny dropped.
“Oh,” she said. “I get it.”
I rested a hand on Heidi's shoulder. I can't really tell you why, it was just sort of instinctive.
“Lucy,” I started. “Can we just...”
“What was it?” She had her hands on her hips now. Never a good sign. “Not biddable enough for you? Wanted me to make you tea more often? Maybe fetch your slippers?”
“Lucy...”
“Or did you just want a girl who'd call you a stud no matter how fast you-”
“LUCY!”
“What?” she snarled.
The drug dealers had paused their argument to watch us out the corners of their eyes. While my brain worked furiously, someone else decided to break the silence.
“Hello,” said a voice, sweet as sugar, friendly as a diplomat greeting the head of a nuclear power. “My name's Heidi.”
Lucy raised a chestnut eyebrow, one of only two survivors of the dye. “Well, blow me. It talks.”
I couldn't quite see Heidi's face from where I was standing, but her tone indicated coy smile number five was in use.
“We come with a lot of features,” she replied.
The other eyebrow rose to join its companion. “Not a fan of subtly are you.”
Heidi shrugged. “I can do subtle.” Ever so casually, she took a step forward, fingertips toying with a lock of golden hair. “I can do whatever you like.”
It suddenly struck me that my bedroom android was flirting with my ex. During the time it took for my brain to process this revelation, Lucy's expression had softened considerably.
“I don't know,” she said. “Why should I need a machine when I can get real flesh?”
“My joints move in any direction,” replied the android. “And I never get tired.”
“Really,” said Lucy. The smile skulking around the corners of her mouth was one I hadn't seen in a long time. “That sounds like a challenge.”
I coughed loudly. “You know, if you two would like a few moments...”
Lucy's gaze snapped back onto me. The glower had returned. “I'm still not forgiving you.”
“I'm not expecting you to,” I said. “There's a very long, very complicated conversation we need to have... Another time. Right now, I need to speak to Danny.”
A more curious expression. “Danny Gold-Teeth? What d'you want him for?”
“A fast trip out of the city. Possibly the country.”
Lucy's hands returned to her hips. “You in trouble again?”
Honestly seemed like the best policy. “Yes.”
A sniff of that striking nose accompanied by a self-satisfied smile. “Well, Gold-Teeth isn't here.”
“Ah.” I considered my options. Lying low seemed like a good idea with Uncle Jack's men roaming around, but so did getting as far away from the immediate area as possible. Or there was...
“Ah HA! And HERE she is. The lovely and ever so luscious Lucy Long-Leg.”
To say the voice was loud is roughly equivalent to saying an erupting volcano is hot. Accurate, but not really doing the situation justice. It rose and fell, rolled and rumbled, like a storm driven ocean or runaway orchestra. I turned round in time for the dramatic entrance of a man with a chest-measurement that superman would envy. This was a man who could inhale steaks. Probably. I certainly wouldn't put it past him to try.
Lucy greeted the arrival of this monster with an uncharacteristic giggle. “Hi, Danny.”
Danny Gold-Teeth treated her to the most expensive smile in dentistry history. “How are you my simmering, smouldering new lily-of-the-night?”
“Just warming up,” Lucy laughed as she was drawn into a bone-crushing hug.
“Oh, my dear,” said Danny as he released her. “My devilish darling, if it weren't for the shackles of business I would stay and watch you dance myself.”
Danny Gold-Teeth. I'll never know how he did it. Eight years ago he was a grunt. A mere, fist-for-hire with a only a colourful vocabulary to mark him out from the pack. He was signed on by a small-time gangster with his eyes on the city's coke trade. Trouble being, the coke trade belonged to the General. In the ensuing mess of beatings and butcherings, Danny lost every tooth in his out-spoken mouth, but walked off with a blood-sticky case of fifties and the deeds to a certain property. Fast forward a year, and the Lady Dog opens. Suddenly, Danny Gold-Teeth is not only landlord of the underground, he's bosom friend to every whore and stripper in the city. Who'd have thought it.
“Speaking of business,” said Lucy, a dangerously mischievous smile hovering about her perfect lips. “There's someone here to see you.”
Danny looked me up and down. Or, rather, down and down. Even if he were in his socks and I perched on the thickest telephone directory I could find, Danny Gold-Teeth would still have almost a foot on me. Not a pleasant thought when the face staring down at you isn't exactly brimming with welcome.
“Oh,” he said. “Well if it isn't the mumming master of churlish, cheese-stealing crows himself.”
Why is _no one pleased to see me these days?_
I went for the most charming smile I could manage.
“It's good to see you too, Danny.”
The landlord took my offered hand. After methodically crushing it inside his gorilla's fist, he gave me back my circulation with a sharp snap of the wrist.
“Whatever it is, the answer's no.”
I feigned confusion. “You don't even know what I was going to ask.”
Danny shook his head and stepped past me, pulling a battered mobile phone out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The device looked as if it was held together with electrical tape and prayers.
“You're in deep shit, Mr Cheese-Stealer,” he said, punching the buttons. “Slushing sloppy shit up to your waist and rising. It's not me you need, it's the good and godly Jesus Christ!”
“Ah.” I ran my tongue over dry lips. “You've heard from Uncle Jack then.”
Danny nodded. “And the General, bless his metal toe-caps.” He snapped the phone shut and returned it to his pocket.
At the mention of the two names, the drug-dealers in the corner gave up all pretence of not listening. Their stares held the quiet optimism of men wondering if there might be some free entertainment on offer. Danny shot a glance their way, then a crooked smile.
“Fabulous to see some of our most lovely loyal customers in so early,” he said. “Have a pint on the house. Mick...” He turned towards the android behind the bar. “Pull the gents something dark.” Eyes back on the drug-dealers, he grinned a little wider. “You'll have to fetch them yourself. Mickey's a marvellous chap, but he's legless before we even open up!”
Still laughing at his own joke, Danny clapped a hand onto my shoulder. It was like being hit with a sack of flour. “We'll continue this cheerful chat in the Red Room,” he muttered.
The Red Room is one of the many private meeting rooms tucked away around the Lady Dog. For no reason anyone has ever been able to explain to me, it's painted powder blue from floor to ceiling. Probably another one of Danny's jokes.
The landlord shut the door before either Heidi or Lucy had an opportunity to follow us, then stood with his hands finger-deep in his jacket pockets, a look of near-pity on his oversized features.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked before I could speak.
I shrugged. “I'm too handsome for my own good?”
My smile wasn't returned.
“No,” said Danny. “Your problem, my good crow, is that you think you're cleverer than everyone else.”
“Well, I wouldn't go as far as...”
“And there you go again,” said Danny. “Writhing on the line like a little wriggly worm.”
Playing passive wasn't working. I squared myself up as much as the frame God had granted me allowed. “I'm not a worm, Danny.”
“No,” he said. “You're a rat. And a staggeringly stupid one at that. Quite how someone of your exquisite intelligence gets to be so stupid is quite beyond this mind of mine.”
The conversation wasn't going quite how I'd hoped. Maybe appealing to the landlord's better nature would help me out.
“Danny,” I said, smoothing my hair back with my right palm. “All I need from you is a name. Someone who can help me out of the city.”
“No,” snapped Danny, single digit pointing into my face. “What you need is to listen.”
That is, of course, assuming he has a better nature.
“Danny, please...”
“Have you even thought about why you got caught?”
I spread my palms. “I haven't really had much of a chance!”
“Then think about this,” he said. “Why do rats die in pits while dogs run the streets?”
I groaned. “I don't know, Danny. Now could you please...”
The landlord clenched his fist. For a moment, I thought he might knock me out. “You do know you blubber-brained son of a street-walker. You're just not thinking.”
“Danny,” I said. “This has been a lovely chat, but I really must be going. Things to do, people to run away from, etc.” I started towards the door. “Just, please don't sell me out.”
There was a short pause. Just long enough for me to get my hand to the door handle.
“That might be a problem,” said Danny.
I hesitated, then glanced back. “Why?”
Danny gave me a soft, almost fatherly smile. “Because I already did.”
I didn't freeze. In my line of business, people who freeze end up part of Darwin's theory. I was through the door before you could say “dead man”, and across the floor of the Lady Dog before you could repeat it.
“Heidi!” I snapped. “We're going.”
Heidi stood up. She and Lucy had picked a table to lounge around and tucked the holdall beneath it. The biscuits were out and Lucy was making short work of them. HobNobs: Lucy's kryptonite. The moment I appeared, she brushed away the crumbs.
“What on Earth...”
“Shh!” I hissed.
There, a voice speaking to the bouncer. They'd reached the front door. That meant they'd be at the back door too. So the logical course of action was...
“Stairs,” I murmured, then hared across the room to a barely-concealed side-door. The staircase appeared rickety, but appearances can be deceiving. The rotten treads boomed with concealed metal as I took them three at a time, Heidi keeping pace behind me. I counted the doors as they went past.
“First floor...second floor...third...fourth...”
And there it was, the door to the roof. I grinned past my own gasps for air. When in doubt, always head upwards. The door was bolted, but not locked. I slipped the bar across, then almost fell through the gap. The flat roof was sparsely gravelled and home to a pair of city-plump pigeons. Pigeons glaring suspiciously in the direction of...
“Shit.”
Skidding on the loose gravel, I attempted an about-turn back into the stairwell, but a hand grabbed my jacket before I got there. Reaching for the gun in the back of my trousers, I had it half-way drawn when something cold rested against my cheek.
“Drop it.” The voice was one that expected to be obeyed. Calm, collected, and maybe even slightly bored. Squinting out the corner of my eye, I sighted a good reason for it. The barrel of a sub machine-gun.
I dropped my weapon. It seemed like the only logical step.
It took three of the General's men, all neatly suited and armed to the teeth, to escorted me back down the stairs, with Heidi trooping obediently out in front and the other four some way behind. They seemed concerned that I might try something stupid. I was more concerned that someone's finger might slip in the narrow space. It was almost a relief to be back in the main room of the Lady Dog. Eight of Uncle Jack's men, all T-shirts and torn jeans, were lounging around the tables with somewhat disgruntled expressions, like they'd been cheated out of a prize. One heaved an aluminium bat to his shoulder.
“So,” he said. “Who gets him now?”
The General's men didn't reply in words, they just clicked the safeties of their guns on and off. In response, one of Uncle Jack's lot pumped a shotgun. The drug dealers in the corner huddled around their free beers and made a show of examining the woodwork of the table. Danny Gold-Teeth simply folded his arms.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said. “You want to get all basted blood-and-glory, you do it off my carpets.”
The owner of the bat stood up. He was six foot of denim and check, with metal perforated ears and a tattoo of a scorpion on one side of his neck. There was a handgun tucked into the front of his trousers and a piece of white gum being slowly kneaded between his teeth.
“Don't worry, landlord,” he drawled. “No accountants are gonna die today.” He rolled his gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “If they're sensible, that is.”
One of the General's men straightened his collar. He had bottle-blacked hair like fresh tar, and a beetley sort of face that peered out at the world through green-tinted lenses. He also had a Beretta Model 12 hanging loosely from his right hand.
“Don't worry, landlord,” he said. “We'll be sure to clear up the mess after we splatter these jailbirds' brains against the wall.” He gave a tight smile. “There shouldn't be too much of it.”
The gum-chewer rested his bat casually over one shoulder. “Mr Grey, isn't it?” He looked the suited man up and down. “I wonder how tough you are without that iron.”
Lucy snorted. She looked far more amused than worried for my plight, which was comforting. I also noticed she'd hidden the HobNobs.
“Time to move out the furniture, Danny,” she said. “These two might break something if they don't stop swinging their egos around.”
Narrowing his eyes, the owner of the bat stepped towards her.
“And who might you be?” he asked.
“One of mine,” said Danny, the warning clear in his voice.
One of the other thugs cut in. “She's called Lucy Long-Leg, Mack. Used to dance over at the Black Velvet.”
“Well, Lucy,” said Mack the Bat. “Ain't you ever been told that strippers should be seen and not heard?”
Lucy smiled, all teeth and no feeling. “We may not be heard, but we still talk. Want to hear what the hookers say about you? No-Show Mack?”
One of Uncle Jack's men snorted. Even the General's men cracked a smile. Mack looked less impressed. His hand was half-raised when Danny Gold-teeth cut in, voice smooth and measured.
“Excuse me.”
Mack hesitated.
Danny smiled. “Are you sure you want to make this blessed beautiful moment the last time you touch a woman?”
Mack looked over at Danny, then at the door. The bouncers weren't lounging. Men with that much shoulder muscle find lounging a problem. But they were certainly standing in the doorway with an air of unnerving casualness. “Come on,” said their stance. “Make our lives interesting.”
Mack thought for a moment more, then lowered his hand. Smart man.
Lucy smirked. Turning on her heel, she sauntered across the room to stand by her boss, who put a protective arm around her hourglass body. I was starting to feel a little left out of proceedings, so I coughed politely.
“Er, any chance we can just talk this over? I'm sure Danny's got enough free seats for everyone.”
Before anyone could reply, the first few bars of “Gonna Dance On Your Grave” by the Rusty Nails broke through the silence. There were exchanged looks of bafflement before light dawned for the Beretta-touting Mr Grey.
“Sorry,” he said. “That's mine.”
He fished a coffin-black phone out of his pocket and slid it open. Reading the caller ID, he smoothed back his boot-polish hair before putting the device to his ear.
“Sir?” he started. “Yes, sir. We... I understand sir...”
I shifted my feet. Standing at gunpoint was starting to lose its novelty. Before I could grow any more grey hairs, there was another musical distraction, some unidentifiable track by the Swiss Lizzies.
Mack's eyes dared anyone to comment as he answered his phone. “Yes, boss?”
While the two grunts were in conversation with their respective bosses, I reviewed my options. Most of them seemed to end with me being shot in the head. In surveying the scene, I realised that Heidi was watching me. She was back standing by the table with the holdall underneath, artificial eyebrows raised questioningly. It took me a moment to clock that she wanted instructions. This wasn't a situation she was familiar with. Hell, it wasn't one I was all that experienced in either! As ranging and unconventional as my career had been thus far, being a disputed cargo between warring gangs wasn't currently on my CV. They say variety is the spice of life.
“...right away, sir,” said Mr Grey. He finished his call with the General. “New orders. The boss has decided he's willing to share. We're taking this to neutral ground.”
Mack snapped his own phone shut. “Same news here.”
I decided to contribute to proceedings. “Here's pretty neutral, isn't it?” If I could just...
Mack frowned. “He's got a point you-”
“No-way ho-say,” cut in Danny. “You do your slice 'n dice off my carpets.”
“We'll go to the mortuary,” said Grey.
Not the best omen I'd heard all day.
It was a good twenty minute drive to the morgue, the entire of which I spent in pitch darkness. The fact that Heidi got a seat while I rode in the boot was more bizarre than it was annoying. It probably had something to do with the way she quietly followed us out to the cars and stood by a door. The thugs exchanged baffled shrugs, then one of them opened it for her. When in doubt and all that. I'm sure there's a comment on the human condition somewhere in there.
The mortuary, when we reached it, was a fairly standard affair. Grime on the walls, mould on the ceiling, and ever so slightly sticky underfoot. The smell was part disinfectant, part surgical alcohol, and a lot stale blood. Judging by the empty trolleys and general state of disrepair, it hadn't been used for anything reputable for a while. Judging by the half-empty mugs of coffee next to the blood-stained hacksaw, it had been used for something fairly disreputable a lot more recently. At least they'd scattered some newspaper to soak up the worst of the mess.
“Bloody contractors,” said Mr Grey. “Bastards never clean up properly.”
“My brother's a hitter,” Mack threw in. “Takes jobs south of the river.”
“Fascinating,” said Mr Grey.
He grabbed the back of a plastic chair, scraping it across the floor to the centre of the room. The greyish pink stains down the back weren't exactly warming me to the idea of sitting in it.
“You, sit.”
On the other hand, automatic weapons can be very persuasive. The chair creaked in protest as I deposited my weight. It didn't seem too keen to be involved with me either. Unfortunately, it looked like we'd just have to put up with each other. The thugs were fanning out into a semi-circle in front of me, Mack and Mr Grey in the centre and Heidi tagged onto one end like the inside joke in a police line-up (“Take your time, ma'am. Tell us which one of these armed men and one stunning blond killed your husband.”)
“Arms by your sides.”
I'd forgotten the man at my back. Not a wise thing to do to anyone capable of filling me with more lead than a fishing weights supplier. At this moment in time though, he seemed to have something rather different in mind. There was a rip of sticky surfaces parting company. I swear, there's nothing you can't use duct-tape for.
Once I was safely mummy-wrapped to my seat, the show began. Pulling a box of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, Mack spat out his gum before tucking one between his lips.
“So,” he said past it. “Let's get the smart talk over with first.”
I responded with a carefully blank face. “Smart talk?”
“Yeah.” Mack's lighter had a skull on the side and took three strikes to make a flame. He lit his cigarette before continuing. “Let's hear that clever mouth of yours.”
I struggled not to smile. “I wouldn't say I have a clever mouth.”
The thug took a drag on his cigarette before tucking it into the side of his mouth. “That so?” He toyed with the handle of his bat.
“Well,” I answered. “I guess it's a matter of perspective.”
I felt the blow coming even before the thug moved. Then I felt it hit me. It was almost like the sensation of a man in a grubby shirt and denim jacket swinging an aluminium baseball bat into my stomach. Actually, it was exactly like that. Only the jacket had ripped-off sleeves. As I relearned how to breathe, Mack the Bat crouched beside me, face close enough for me to share his cigarette smoke.
“Finished?” he asked.
Speech didn't seem to be happening just yet, so I just gasped and nodded.
“Good,” said Mack, breathing nicotine smoke into my face. “Then you're ready to talk to the boss.”
My stomach felt like he'd hit me again. I managed a distinctly unmanly squeak.
“He's here?”
Mack laughed. “Don't flatter yourself, rat. Uncle Jack just wants a little chat.”
“As does the General,” said Mr Grey.
As both men reached into their pockets, one of Mack's buddies fetched a table. He cleared the coffee cups off it before carrying it over, plonking it down a few feet in front of me with a scowl that could curdle cheese. I noticed the hacksaw was still there. Mack and Mr Grey dialled numbers on their phones before resting them down on the table, on on either side of the bloodied object. During the pause that followed, I swear there was enough time to evolve a new finch for Darwin's collection. Finally, one of the phones coughed. An ugly sound, like hot air being expelled from hell.
“Well?”
The voice was rough like crocodile skin. Too many late nights and Cuban cigars. I could almost smell the old army jackets hanging on the walls of the office, each infused with their own blend of blood, sweat, toxic gas and high explosives. The musty scents of yesterday fighting an ongoing battle with the shoe polish and trouser presses of today. The smell was the first thing everyone noticed about the General. Followed by the cough.
Mr Grey cleared his throat. It's like yawning, once someone starts they get everyone going.
“He's here, sir,” he said. “You're on speaker.”
That was when the other phone came to life.
“You there, Mack-my-boy?”
A much lighter tone. Almost laughing, even. A voice for someone with a twinkle in their eye and a shiny coin up their sleeve for the clever child who guesses where it's gone. I'm told that Uncle Jack gets on well with children. They say Hitler was a vegetarian too.
“Here, boss,” said Mack. “And so's an old friend.”
“Jack?” rasped the other phone
“General,” answered Uncle Jack. “Great to hear from you. How's your wife?”
“Agreeable,” said the General.
“And that boy of yours?”
“Dead in the ground,” said the General. “Right where you left him.”
Uncle Jack chuckled. “So sad, so sad.”
“As was the news of your partner's tragic accident,” replied the General. “Such a waste of good treacle.”
The tension between the two phones was enough to transmit electric current. The General broke through the resulting silence with another of his throat-tearing coughs.
“Shall we address the matter at hand?” he said at last.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Uncle Jack. “You there, my little rat?”
I considered just staying silent. But this is real life. Just because you put a blanket over your head doesn't mean the monsters can't see you.
“Good morning, Uncle Jack,” I said. “Good morning, General.”
“Hmm,” said the General. “Would you say it's a good morning, Mr Grey?”
Mr Grey smiled. “I'd say it is now, sir.”
“Correct.”
The word was followed by another retching cough. I resisted the urge to clear my throat.
“So,” dropped in Uncle Jack. “Let's hear your side of the story. I'm sure you've got a lovely explanation that'll straighten this all out.”
The voice was pleasant. Gentle, even. But I knew better. That's just Uncle Jack's way. “I like you,” he'll say. “I want to be your friend,” is another one of his lines. As it turns out, you want to be his friend too. Because if you're not, he'll have you diced into little meaty chunks for his dogs to eat. Uncle Jack describes himself as a laugher and a gambler; a card-player and a rum-drinker; a flirter and a teaser. And that's all true. But he's also a butcher, born out of the unsmiling dregs of the city, in a neighbourhood where old ladies carry flick-blades in their charity-shop handbags. Uncle Jack is as sweet as sewage, and kind-hearted as the god who sent the flood. So I thought carefully before answering.
“I never lied to you, Uncle Jack,” I said. “Or you, General. I thought...”
“You thought what?” croaked the General. “That we wouldn't notice you were playing double-agent to both of us? Wouldn't notice the documents you stole?”
Time for the big money sell. Deep breath.
“I thought you wouldn't care.” I looked between the phones, wishing I could see the men's faces. “You're bloody gangsters. You deal in lies, damn-lies and automatic weapons. You expect people like me. Count on them.”
They hadn't interrupted me yet. I wondered whether that was a good sign or not.
“You both knew exactly what I was the moment you hired me,” I said. “So why the shock-horror when you find out you were right?”
I wished dearly my arms were free so I could fold them. More to convince myself than anyone else. The long silence on the ends of the two phones wasn't doing much for my blood pressure.
“Look, lad,” said Uncle Jack. The fatherly voice. Not a good sign. “I knew you were a liar. Everyone who works for me is a liar. I just didn't know you were a schemer.”
“You're a smart one,” said the General. “But that's not your problem.”
“Your problem is,” said Uncle Jack. “You think you're smarter than us.”
“We're your superiors,” said the General. He let out a rasping cough. “Your elders and betters.”
“That means as long as you're in our world,” said Uncle Jack. “We're the fucking gods.”
“You can't beat us,” said the General. “Because the longer you manage to deceive us, the harder we crush your miserable rat body.”
“You'll tell us where you've hidden the papers you stole,” Uncle Jack said with a laugh light as skimmed milk. “Then we'll put you out of your misery.”
The General coughed as if to up-chuck his lungs. “Let the cr-crushing begin.”
Mack the Bat gestured with the lit end of his cigarette towards the General's men.
“You got any special tricks to start us off, Mr Grey?”
Mr Grey smiled. The first genuine one I'd seen from him so far.
“A few,” he said.
Handing his beretta to one of his colleagues, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a tiny, Swiss-made penknife. I suddenly wished I didn't have such an active imagination.
As the suited man stepped slowly towards me, I licked my lips. If plan A was not being found out in the first place and plan B was making a clean get away, plan C had just failed. Unfortunately, from there there was only plan Z. Last resort. Final insurance. Dead man's plea. It went something like this.
“Wait...”
“For what?” laughed Mack. “Your guardian angel?”
“My back pocket,” I said. “Left back pocket.”
The thugs looked at each other, then at the two phones lying on the table.
“Boss...” started Mack.
“Check it,” snapped Uncle Jack.
In the end, it was one of the General's men who took the task of feeling me up. After a bit of awkward manoeuvring on both our parts, he managed to extract the leather wallet. I didn't see him flip it open. I just heard him swear.
“Grey, he's a copper!”
Mack let the cigarette fall from his mouth. “Tell me your man's fucking joking.”
The badge was passed from one hand to another.
“No joke,” said Mr Grey with all the solemnity of a priest conducting a funeral. “He's blue alright.”
I let myself smile. “Why do you think I was lifting all that paperwork? I'm an undercover agent.”
Mack ground his heel down on the cigarette. “A fucking pig-in-plain-clothes.” He came towards me, fist drawn back. “A fucking...”
“Mack-my-boy,” said Uncle Jack with the expert timing of a sports commentator. “Whatever stupid thing you're about to do, save it.”
There was silence inside the morgue. A precious moment of peace while the two bosses thought. Calm before the storm and all that.
“So,” said the General at last. “Our little rat is a police rat.”
I held up my chin, eyeing the thugs still half-surrounding me. “That's right. And if you don't let me go right this second all the forces of hell-in-uniform will be coming down on this place.”
“In that case,” said the General. “Where are the sirens?”
There was another of those long pauses. One by one, the thugs started grinning.
“They don't know where you are,” said Mr Grey. “Do they.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course they...”
“Bullshit,” said Mack. “They don't know squit. 'Cos if they did, you wouldn't have bothered showing us your badge.”
I had that sinking feeling again. Right down in the pit of my stomach.
“Even so,” said the General. “This revelation means acting with a certain amount more caution.”
“That's right,” said the cheerful voice of Uncle Jack. “So my guys'll clean up while yours hide the body.”
“Agreed,” said the General, possibly making organised-crime-history as he did so. “I would stay on the line, but business is business and it stops for no rat.”
“Likewise,” said Uncle Jack. “Goodbye my little rodent friend.”
“Goodbye Uncle Jack,” I murmured. “General.”
The two phones went dead and their respective owners pocketed them, mirroring expressions of glee on their otherwise contrasting faces.
I lowered my head and tried a speed-run through my options, but all my mind could come up with was variations on, “Oh shit, this is going to hurt.”
It was then that some unidentifiable member of the General's crew decided to delay my torment a moment longer.
“Hey. What about the android?”
The thugs exchanged glances, then turned as one to consider the technological marvel in question. Heidi, for her part, met their stares with a sheepish smile. Her eyes flicked briefly in my direction, inviting some sort of direction. When I failed to give her any, she returned her acrylic gaze to her audience. Taking a few slow steps into the middle of the circle, she clasped her hands behind her back.
“Hello,” she said, sweet as syrup, innocent as white-frilled dresses. “My name's Heidi.”
There was a pause while every hot-blooded man in the room raised their eyebrows. One of Uncle Jack's men, a slower member of the pack, looked around at the others in bemusement.
“She's an android?”
Mr Grey let loose a murmur of what might have been laughter. “You can tell by the whiteness of the eyes.”
“And the way she didn't bat a pretty eyelash when I slugged her boyfriend,” added Mack.
Slipping the penknife back in his pocket, Mr Grey stepped over to Heidi. He ran two fingers through her hair.
“Essentially Human Systems,” he said. “For eight months salary plus postage, they'll grant you every man's dream. A woman with no feelings. No desires. A woman who never argues or gets a headache. Just keeps on smiling.” He chuckled. “Your very own perfect girl.”
Heidi simply looked up at him, a sculpted smile stretched between the upturned corners of her mouth, as if pegged out to dry. The thug was tall, perhaps a head over the android and, as he stepped in closer to her, she was forced to bend her neck back at a fairly unnatural angle, pulling the rubberised skin taut enough for a box outline to press against it. The tiny pump that powered her simulated pulse.
“Well?” Mr Grey asked, his voice teasing. “What do you think of that, little android?”
I heard the words leave my mouth before I even realised it was open.
“Leave her alone. She can't answer questions like that.”
Mack snorted. “What is this? The robot defence league?”
Mr Grey didn't bother looking at me. He was still watching Heidi.
“Well then,” he said. “Do you at least understand numbers?”
“Yes,” said Heidi.
“Excellent.” Mr Grey turned to Mack. “Odd, we get her. Even, you get her. Sound fair?”
Mack shrugged. “I'd rather just shoot you all and take her, but if you insist.”
“Good,” said Mr Grey. He turned back to the android. “Heidi, wasn't it? Pick a number, Heidi. Just the first number you-”
Most people hesitate when asked to pick a random number. Before Mr Grey had even finished speaking, Heidi blurted out,
“Two.”
Mr Grey frowned. “Damn.”
Mack laughed. “You were expecting her to say 'one', weren't you?”
“Yes,” said Mr Grey. “I guess I was. Fairs, fair. She's yours.”
I suddenly found my voice again.
“Actually, I think you'll find she's mine.”
Mack leant his bat against the table and adjusted the gun in his belt. “I wasn't aware dead-men could have possessions. Looks like you're coming with us, Heidi.”
Heidi looked from Mack to Mr Grey and back again. There was a distinctly confused edge to her smile. Her eyes finally rested on me.
“Don't look at him,” said Mack. “Look at me.”
Receiving no counter-instruction, Heidi obeyed.
Mack grinned. “That's right, now come over here.”
Solidifying her smile once more, Heidi walked lightly across the mortuary floor to stand in front of Uncle Jack's man. Still, there was something strangely heartening about the half turned in my direction she gave as she reached him.
“Hey, don't worry,” said Mack. “He'll be dead in a moment.” He pinched a lock of her hair between his fingers, feeling the silky texture. “Then you get a new master.”
Heidi considered this statement. She considered it for almost a minute, perfect face frozen while the electronics worked. Then, with a twist to the artificial mouth, she changed mode.
“Are you a bad man?” she asked, her voice far more innocent than her smile.
Mack winked. “We're all bad men here, love.”
“OK,” said Heidi. Then she reached forward and drew the gun from his belt. In the time it takes to blink, she had the barrel between Mack's eyes. There was a short bang. And all hell broke loose.
“Shit!”
“Did you see...”
As Mack fell backwards with all he grace of a wooden-board, Heidi pirouetted on one foot like a ballet dancer. While the blind-sided ranks of the two gangs fumbled with their weapons, a series of gunshots echoed around the crumbling walls.
Just as suddenly, the chaos ended. Heidi clicked the gun three times before holding it up to her face, frowning. The remaining thugs held drawn guns in shaking hands, seemingly unable to attempt the first shot. In the silence that followed, I licked my lips.
“Yeah,” I said. “When that happens, it means you need to put more ammo in.”
“Oh,” said Heidi. She looked around at the thugs. “Does anyone have any?”
One of the Generals' men bent down and gingerly felt Mr Grey's pulse. From the bloodied hole in the black-haired man's forehead, I'd say he was wasting his time.
“Rat,” he said slowly. “Tell your robot to stand down.”
I opened my mouth to protest that she'd run out of ammo, and thus was about as dangerous as a toaster, then closed it again as I clocked what was going on. Hollywood has a lot to answer for, but in this instance, it looked like it was about to save my life. This time, my smile was genuine.
“I don't know about that,” I said. “She seems pretty pissed with you all.”
A gun barrel to my face reminded me the sort of situation I'd landed myself in. The fact that it was shaking was less comforting than I thought it would be.
“Androids don't get angry,” said the thug, one of Uncle Jack's.
I continued to smile up at him.
“No,” I said. “And they don't attack people either. Although...” I peered over at Mr Grey's body. At the slowly oozing hole in the dead centre of his forehead. “That was a pretty damn good shot, don't you think?”
The thug pressed the gun against my temple, eyes flicking between me and Heidi.
“Look,” he started. “You just...”
“Heidi,” I said quickly. “If this man shoots me, I want you to kill them all.”
Heidi gave a cheerful smile. “OK.”
She likes simple instructions. I decided to avoid thinking about just how she planned to go about the task. By the expressions on the remaining thug's faces, they hadn't.
The thug holding the gun to my head licked his lips.
“She moves,” he said. “And I shoot.”
So that was it. Stalemate. Or was for about a minute. Oddly enough, it was Heidi who heard it first, angling her head just slightly towards the door. Then I caught it too. Police sirens.
The thugs cast nervous glances in each other's directions. I simply started laughing.
“What did I tell you?” I said past somewhat manic giggles. “What did I tell you?”
“Fuck this for a plate of chips,” muttered one of Uncle Jack's men. “I'm outta here.”
Flight is a bit like yawning in that way. Once one person starts, it sets everyone off. Moments later, Heidi and I were alone in the abandoned mortuary, the blue and red lights just starting to glimmer against the windows as the squad cars approached. Suddenly I found I'd run out of laughter.
“Heidi,” I said, wriggling in my chair. “Get me out of this.”
The android dropped the gun and set about tearing the tape off.
“Quickly, quickly,” I said. “Before...”
“Before what?”
The voice wasn't Heidi's. It was sharper, crueller. It took me a moment to recognise the flip it stirred in my stomach. Lucy Long-Leg stood in the doorway, mobile phone in one hand and self-satisfied smirk on her almost perfect face. She'd pulled on a full-length black biker suit over her dance outfit, making her body look like it'd been dipped in tar.
“Morning, Officer,” she said. Her expression was dangerously amused.
With an abrupt snap, Heidi broke the last of the tape and I was able to stand up.
“You called the police?” I asked, stamping some life back into my feet.
“Soon as I heard you 'fess up,” said Heidi. She glanced towards the door. There was some definite shouting going on outside. “Thought you could introduce me to some of your boys.”
“Ah.” I licked my lips. “That might be a problem.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“I'm not a policeman.”
A pause.
“But,” said Lucy. “The badge...”
“Stolen.”
“Ah.”
There was a moment's more silence, interrupted by a gruff voice from outside.
“Anyone in there?”
Lucy and I looked at each other. For once, Heidi thought faster than either of us.
“Whoops,” said the android.
Lucy and I started towards the rear door.
“Your bike...” I began.
“Out back,” she replied.
“Does it...”
“No idea.”
As it turned out, the bike did take three. Even with one of them being mostly comprised of rubber-clad metal. Having said that, Lucy doesn't let anything between her legs that wouldn't drop the jaw on a racehorse, so the two-wheeled rocket in question was about the size of a small rhinoceros. And about as elegant as one in the bends.
The mercifully brief bike-ride ended at the Lady Dog, where I was sat down and forcibly served a glass of port. The explanations took place as I gulped down my “medicine”. First about how Lucy had wrangled the location of the morgue out of Gold-Teeth. Then how she'd got changed and set off after them, parking her bike and hovering just out of sight to listen in on proceedings. At the end of it all, I sat for a while, staring into the last dregs of port in my glass.
“Well?” said Lucy at last. “You gonna say something?”
I looked up at her. All of her. Every god-damn inch of leather-wrapped bone and flesh. Her bleached-blond hair was thrown into disarray by the wind. Her body-suit zip was partly undone, revealing coffee-smudged skin and a bloated sandwich of bust. Her nose was a little too long, a little too sharp. But her eyes, they were sharpest of all. Sharp like razor wire. Sharp like the rocks that wreck ships in a storm. You could dash yourself to pieces against those eyes. And you wouldn't even care.
“Thanks,” I said at last. “I owe you one.”
Lucy sniffed. Her gaze flicked away towards the floor before returning to meet mine again.
“That it?” she said.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Well...” She stood up. “Then I guess I'll go change.” A pause. “Prick.”
To say Lucy stormed off would be doing her a great injustice. It was more like a highly motivated tornado, steering a carefully plotted course between the round tables and their huddles of chairs. As I forced my gaze away from her, I found myself looking at Heidi instead. The android was sitting like a good little school-girl, feet tucked under her chair and hands clasped in her lap. She was also wearing a distinctly puzzled expression.
I sighed. “Do you need something explaining?”
“Yes,” said Heidi. “Why did she walk away?”
I tried a smile, but my face didn't seem to want to cooperate. “I upset her.”
Now Heidi looked thoroughly confused. “Don't you like her?”
“Of course I do. But...”
“Then why did you upset her?”
I opened my mouth, frowned, then closed it again.
“You know what?” I said. “I have no idea.”
I caught up with her in the cramped changing room behind the bar.
“Performers only,” she snapped at the creak of the door.
“Lucy,” I started. “Can I just...”
Without looking at me, she tossed away her body-suit. “Oh, go fuck yourself.”
Stepping up behind her, I took my ex-girlfriend by the shoulders and very firmly turned her around.
“No thanks,” I said. “I'd much rather be fucking you.”
Then I kissed her.
It was two weeks before the whole Uncle-Jack-General situation could be properly sorted out. Ed Greenfingers was kind enough to lend me one of his receiving rooms for the meeting. The in-betweener was a grey-eyed, purple-suited man in his thirties, balding before his time and with a pair of pebble-spectacles clamped onto the end of his nose like a parasitic creature. He shuffled the papers in front of him before accepting the glass of red off one of Ed's wheeled serving androids.
“So,” he said, drawing the wine in for a nervous sip. “I have the agreements from both bosses to leave you alone. If you'll just, er...”
For a split second, his eyes flicked away from mine.
“Look,” he said. “Is that really necessary?”
I followed his gaze. Heidi was sitting quietly in the seat beside me, slowly running her delicate fingers up and down the long barrel of a Winchester pump. It was somewhat erotic. If you're into shotguns.
“Perfectly,” I answered. “I like to think of paranoia as my friend. It keeps me alive.”
The man adjusted his glasses. “I might have gone for a smaller gun, myself.”
I shrugged. “So would have I. She picked it. Now, back to business.”
I fished the white envelope, recently retrieved from one of the hotel rooms, out of my inside pocket. Sliding the documents out, I placed them on the table one at a time.
“Uncle Jack,” I began. “Two ammo orders. Two confirmations for moved funds. One written request for a hit on a Mr Geoffrey Baker.”
Nudging the papers across the table, I started a new pile. “The General. Two bank statements for offshore accounts. One order for explosives from a foreign party. One receipt for a hunting knife currently in police possession.”
The in-betweener gathered up the two stacks of documents, thumbing through them before tucking them inside separate cardboard folders.
“And the rest?” he said lightly.
I smiled, then tipped the last two papers out of the envelope.
“One photo of Uncle Jack's son with an unknown male.” I turned the picture to face the man across the table. “Fairly compromising position. And one doctor's prescription for the General. Beta blockers.” I tossed away the empty envelope and folded my arms. “Generally prescribed for heart conditions.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the man, clawing the documents into their correct folders. “My client would prefer you keep your speculations to yourself.”
I smiled. “My lips are sealed. Now, the promise-papers?”
The purple-suited man held out the two sheets. I reached out, but he twitched them away.
“How,” he began. “Are my clients to know that you haven't made copies?”
I glanced at Heidi, still fondling her new gun, then back at the man. “They have my honest word as a liar. It's all I have to give.”
The man tightened his lips. “Fair enough.” Then handed over the papers.
The two sheets had very little writing on, and most of it was veiled threats. But they were better than nothing. By a very long way. I folded them carefully before tucking them into my pocket.
“Come on Heidi,” I said as I stood up. “Lucy will be getting impatient.”
We were half-way to the door when the man called out again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't catch your name.”
I turned back towards him for a moment, smiling.
“I never gave it.”
I was right about one thing. Lucy was getting impatient.
“What were you guys talking about in there?” she snapped. “The plot of frickin' War and Peace?”
I slipped a hand around her torso as I mounted the bike behind her. The leather body-suit was cool to touch and ever so slightly damp from the Autumn mist hanging in the air. A new season eager to get the hell on with it.
“Just paperwork,” I said. “Nothing interesting.”
Lucy sniffed. “Fine. I'll just ask Heidi later.”
The android in question finished putting the shotgun away in its hockey-stick bag and slung it across her back.
“Are we going home now?” she asked as she swung her leg over the bike behind me.
“I don't know,” I said, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Lucy's face. “Are we?”
Lucy laughed dryly. “Is this your oh-so-subtle way of saying you want me to move back in with you?”
“It might be,” I said.
Lucy twisted her key in the ignition. “I'll think about it.”
She revved the bike, sending shudders through the metal bodywork. I felt Heidi slip her hands around my waist.
“Look,” I began. “If you...”
“I've thought about it,” said Lucy. “The answer's yes.” She twisted round to face me, one finger raised, like a scolding school-teacher. “On one condition.”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you...”
“We keep Heidi.”
So that was that. Lucy moved her stuff back in, and proceeded to turn my life upside-down all over again. At least she was happy to get back in the game. Most jobs are a hell of a lot easier with a getaway driver. She didn't stop dancing at the Lady Dog though. In her own words, “One of us needs to earn an honest living!”
Yeah, jobs are easier with a team. I guess that's what old Danny Gold-Teeth was trying to tell me. For a man with a lot of words, he doesn't explain things too well. Though I'm not sure he quite had Heidi in mind for my new heavy-weapons guy. She seems to like the job, though. For an android with no drives beyond a desire to please, she really likes guns.
And that was the end of the Two Bosses job. Not a clean getaway, but those only happen in films anyway. My life hasn't gone smoothly for more than a month since I busted my first car at the age of thirteen. Back in the days when all you needed to make your name was a decent electronics kit and the balls to do what no one else would.
I still wonder about that time in the morgue. The sub-ten seconds that turned a sticky situation into a robot-induced bloodbath. I checked the manual very carefully when I got home. In it was a full page of gentle reassurances that the EHS 4.1 Home-maker android was incapable of committing violence against a human. Which is interesting. I guess it proves one thing at least:
Androids can have balls too.