Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume (7 page)

Chapter 2

The next morning
I locked up, put a ‘closed - get drunk somewhere else’ sign on the door and caught the Pipe. The contact file gave an address on Yang Eighteen. Not a salubrious neighbourhood, but far from the worst. I called Sherry on the way.

“Finally,” she said. “Three days I’ve been leaving messages.”

“Been busy. Drunks don’t serve themselves, y’know.”

A brief silence and I knew she was stopping herself say,
You should know.
Instead she said, “So can you make it?”

“Make what?”

“Please tell me you did actually listen to my messages.”

“Erm…”

“Christ!” A part muffled sigh of exasperation. “My place, tonight, eight pm. Bring a bottle.”
Should be easy for you,
she didn’t say.

“What’s the occasion?”

“It’s my birthday, you prick.”

“Can you remember my birthday?” I asked, getting pissed. “Can’t really recall any card or gift-giving rituals being part of our almost entirely professional relationship, boss.”

“Well now it is. Besides, I want you to meet Sam.”

Sam was her new squeeze. Truth be told, as far as I knew, Sam was her only squeeze. Sherry didn’t talk about her pre-Demon days and in the time I’d known her she’d always been way too much of a workaholic to accommodate a relationship. Recent months had seen something of a change in her, not a softening exactly, more a loss of the tense defensiveness I liked so much. It left me a little resentful of the as yet unseen Sam and not inclined towards an evening of enforced socialising. But I needed a favour and was already in a weak negotiating position.

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Listen, what do you know about the Karnikhov case?”

“I’ve got Red Wing on it. Pretty nasty, leads are thin on the ground.” A pause. “Why the interest, Alex? You got something?”

I pulled the vampire’s smart from my pocket and called up the blurred shot of the crime scene.
Wrong. Doesn’t fit.
“Maybe. Probably nothing.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to work it a little first. Since it’s probably nothing.”

“You are aware you have no legal standing just now, right?”

“Fully aware, thank you.” My tone was harder than I intended and she lapsed back into silence for a moment.

“Well don’t kill anybody. My place at eight. Bring wine.”
Not that bourbon you’re so fond of,
she didn’t say. The line went dead.

“Can’t kill anybody,” I muttered. “You took my gun.”

*

The vampire’s hab was the upper half of a prefab block otherwise occupied by an oriental spice shop. Approaching the place I took in the hard to miss sight of a large multi-tattooed youth - bare brawny arms, black wife-beater, shaven head - standing stock still on the walkway outside. It was the stillness that caught my attention, the rigid, sweaty tremble of his stance was out of place, as was the large dark stain on his combats and the puddle lapping at his boots.

“Public urination’s a crime, Jed,” I advised, ambling up. I didn’t have an ID to show him but with his type I didn’t need one.

“Nnnn..!” said Shave-head, not meeting my gaze, jaw tensing a little, drool staining his lips.

I frowned, this wasn’t going how it should. Whatever he was on it was something new. I moved closer, shouting into his ear: “Go away, fuckhead!”

“He’s not allowed.” It was an elderly Asian lady, clutching a broom in the shop doorway, eyes cautious. She didn’t need to see an ID either.

“By who?” I asked.

She flicked her gaze at the upper storey window then went back inside. I gave Shave-head a final curious glance then followed her, fishing the cheap smart from my pocket. “I’m looking for…”

“I know. She’s expecting you. Take the stairs at the back.” The old woman put her broom aside and moved behind the counter. The shop had a rich aroma of mingled spices, not unpleasant but surely a shock to anyone with gene-enhanced olfactory senses.

“How long’s she been here?” I asked.

“Two months, give or take.”

“Good tenant?”

Her gaze became suspicious, defensive. “She’s a good person. Doesn’t deserve any trouble from you.”

I could tell she knew who I was. The Heavenly Garden Shoot Out (or massacre, depending on who you ask) ensured an unwelcome celebrity these days. “Nice to know.”

I moved to the back of the shop, finding the stairs. She opened the door before I could knock, same bright, open smile as before. “You came! I hoped you would.” She stood aside. “Come in, come in.”

Her furnishings were elegant if sparse, a few objets d’art, mostly Asian ceramics, some tasteful twentieth century prints. No 2Ds or holo-stills, of her or anyone else. And books, a whole wall of books. Clearly Dr Janet was something of a traditionalist.

“Get you anything?” she asked, closing the door. “Coffee, tea…”

“Who killed Thomas DeMarco?” I said.

She paused then laughed a little. “Straight to it. I should’ve expected that.” She went to her couch, low set and fake but still expensive leather, perching on the arm, long legs crossed. “I don’t know who killed him but I think I might know why.”

“And the Downside musician kid?”

“Him too.”

“And Karnikhov?”

“Yep.”

I went to the window, looking down on Shave-head. “There’s a man outside standing in his own piss, too scared to move. Know anything about that too?”

She shrugged, a little sheepish. “He was upsetting Mrs Yeung. Demanding money with menaces I believe it’s called.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I told him to stand there. Some people still have a superstitious view of my kind. Flash them some fang and they’ll convince themselves you’ve put a hoodoo on them.”

I met her gaze, seeing only a small flicker of worry in her too perfect face. “When I leave, tell him he can go. Tell him I said not to come back here. That should be enough.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Don’t you want to hear my theory?”

“If you have information about the Karnikhov case you should take it to Chief Inspector Mordecai, LCPD Homicide Bureau.”

“I’ve been messaging for days. When I finally got through to the case officer, Redwin or something, he told me not to waste his time and hung up.”

“We get a lot of wierdo calls, cranks, fake psychics, wannabe amateur sleuths and the like. All convinced they’ve got the vital insight that’ll break the big case. What makes you any different?”

She laughed again. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. You can be the judge when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.” She rose and went to an old writing bureau positioned so it faced her wall of books, lifting a live-text sheet from the desk and holding it out to me. “It’s all here, if you want to read it.”

“Tell me instead.”

She tilted her head a little. It was the first predatory mannerism she’d exhibited, focused, feline and more attractive than I wanted it to be. “Easier to tell if I’m crazy or lying if you hear me say it, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Fair enough.” She sat in the swivel chair in front of the desk, putting aside the live-text. “What do you know about the Greek legend of Medea, Inspector?”

“I’m not an Inspector these days. And my formal education was a little limited.”

“Medea was a sorceress and Priestess of Hecate, daughter of King Aeetes, ruler of Colchis and keeper of the Golden Fleece. When Jason arrived with his Argonauts to claim the fleece she fell in love with him, helping to steal it and fleeing with him on the Argo. They sailed back to Iolcus in triumph, for Jason had been promised the kingship of the land if he managed the impossible feat of stealing the fleece. But when they arrived jealous King Pelias refused to give up the throne. Medea, beautiful and wise but also cunning and ruthless, promised Pelias the secret of eternal youth. Killing and butchering an elderly goat she placed the pieces in a cauldron from which a young, healthy goat sprang a moment later. Pelias’ daughters, seeing this and keen to honour their father, fell upon him with knives, cutting him to pieces and throwing them into the cauldron, expecting a new youthful king to emerge. But, of course, they had been tricked, and Pelias was truly dead.”

She had the voice of a natural story-teller, strong and compelling. I supposed it went with her profession.

“What happened to Medea?” I asked. “Did they kill her?”

“No. Some legends say she and Jason ruled Iolcus together, but Euripides has her murdering their children a few years later when he dumps her for a younger woman.”

“Charming.”

“That’s the Greeks for you.”

I took a seat on the couch. I could understand why Red Wing hung up on her. Myths and legends all smacked of just another crank theory. But I had reason to keep listening.
You need to talk to the
vampire.

“You got anything to drink?” I asked.

“Sure.” She got up. “Real coffee, fresh off the transport…”

“No bourbon? Whisky?”

“I don’t drink alcohol. It doesn’t agree with me.”

“Unlike coffee or tea?”

“They’re less… disagreeable.”

I got up. “Get your coat. There’s a bar on Gable Street.”

“So, you think I have something?”

“Thomas DeMarco was a king of sorts, big fan of staying young, with daughters, found dismembered in a barrel in one of his own slaughterhouses, which they were running. It’s a stretch but you could say they killed him, albeit indirectly. And I’m guessing you have something similar to tell me about Karnikhov and Rickard.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then get your coat.”

*

The bar was called The Marble Head and threw the shittiness of the Heavenly Garden into stark relief. Clean, ceramic tiling covered the walls, the floors decorated in checker board patterns fringed with fluer de lys. The bartender was a campy splice working a were-panther look who gave Dr Janet a pouty glance of pique which disappeared when he saw me. “What can I get you, m’loves?”

“Do you stock Kentucky Red?”

“That’s pretty hard to come by. Got JD though.”

“Give me a double, straight, no ice. And whatever my friend wants.”

“We don’t have plasma,” he said.

Dr Janet raised an eyebrow at me. “Does anyone? Water’s fine.”

I chose a booth at the back, facing the door and close to the emergency exit. Demon habits die hard.

“So,” I said, “Rickard and Karnikhov.”

“Rickard was a musician,” she began. “Young, talented and starting to get a lot of attention on the net, then his girlfriend died. He went into a deep depression and ends up torn to pieces with his head floating down a river.” She looked at me in expectation.

“Yeah, I read that in your file.”

She swallowed a small sigh. My scholarly ignorance was starting to grate. “Orpheus,” she said. “Son of Calliope the Muse and Morpheus, God of Dreams, and the greatest musician in all the world. When his beloved Eurydice died, he journeyed into the underworld to reclaim her. Hades, lord of the dead, made him a bargain: ‘I will give you back your bride, she will follow you along the path to the land of the living, but you must keep your eyes on the way ahead and not turn until you reach the world above. If you do, Eurydice will be lost to you forever.’ And so he walked the path, all the time hearing nothing behind him, no footsteps, no sign that his beloved was following, all the time itching to turn, ever more convinced he had been tricked. And then, when the light of the living world was but a short distance away and his journey nearly complete, he could bear it no longer and he turned. She was there. She had been all along, and the last he saw of her was her face disappearing into the black void of the underworld.

“Heartbroken and sick with grief, Orpheus roamed the land, singing his lament, until the wild women of the Bacchae found him. Perhaps they were angered by the sadness of his song, or simply possessed of the blood-lust for which they were famed. In any case they tore Orpheus to pieces and cast his head into the Hebrus River, where it floated out to sea, still singing his lament.”

She had something alright. The parallel was just too close. But there were obvious difficulties. “Three women were executed for Rickard’s murder,” I pointed out.

“Yes.” She made a small grimace of consternation. “Not sure what to make of that. Maybe someone paid them to do it. People take money to do all manner of terrible things.”

“They had his DNA in their teeth. That’s a pretty big ask, regardless of the fee.”

She shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you, Mr McLeod. I’m not a detective, just an academic with a theory.”

Your’re more than that,
I decided.
No way she’s spent her whole life lost in
books.

“Karnikhov,” I said.

“Ah.” She brightened, enthused. “The Prometheus of my theory.”

Prometheus.
This one I knew.
Cap Blackmore, spray-painting a tableau on the nose of his ship: muscular hero type with a flaming torch.
“The Jed who stole fire from the gods.”

Dr Janet smiled in surprise. “Quite so. Did they teach you this one in school?”

“Never went to school. A tug captain told me the story. Renamed his boat when the war started. This was the early days when we were deluded enough to think we could field a battle fleet of our own. A hundred or so converted tugs and cargo haulers, kitted out with whatever weaponry we could lay our hands on. I’d been drafted in to augment the crew numbers. I guess Cap wanted something fierce but classy, inspire the crew or some such. Didn’t do any good. An EMP took out our main bus ten seconds into the first engagement and a plasma-shrike cracked us open like an egg. I spent six hours floating around in an EVA suit, stewing in my own filth before the rescue boat picked me up. After that we stuck firmly to low-intensity warfare.”

She was staring at me intently and I realised with a start I’d spoken aloud. Even worse, my glass was empty. “Give me a minute.”

I returned from the bar a few minutes later, hoping the pause had made her forget my inadvertent reverie. “So, the gods killed Prometheus, right? Punishment for giving fire to humanity.”

“Not quite. Prometheus was a titan and therefore immortal. So Zeus had him chained to a rock where his liver was perpetually devoured by an eagle.”