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Gregory was generous with the gun, even throwing in plenty of ammo and an extra clip. It was a .45, bigger than I usually carried, but still smaller than Frank’s old hand cannon. The whole thing was brushed steel and had the serial number filed off. It was probably a hot piece, but I was hoping just waving it around would be enough to get the job done. If I had to fire it, anything I was using would be hot at that point. I even got half a pack of cigarettes out of the deal. Gregory had protested about them, albeit briefly.
The bruiser by the door gave me a silent nod on the way out as I shoved the pistol into a shoulder holster Gregory had also thrown in as a gratuity for doing business with him. I instinctively went to tip my hat, then realized how ridiculous I probably looked as my fingers touched the brim of the baseball cap. Still, it would help hide my face from the cameras. I pulled it lower and squeezed the sides in tight, curling the brim so it hid my eyes as best as could be expected.
The old work boots clomped on the concrete sidewalk as I made my way down the street, crossed over, and headed east. It was a long trip from here to Berdino, and if I was going to pay Sergei a visit, I would need some wheels. I could take my chances on the barcode and try flagging a cab, but with my luck it wouldn’t work. Also, my funds were limited and every dollar I spent needed to matter. No, I needed to find myself a new ride, so I turned down the ramp of a parking garage under one of the many apartment buildings lining the street.
As I walked through the garage, a few sports cars caught my eye. Flaming red and blazing yellow filled my vision for a moment, then I continued to peruse my options. Whatever I was in would be reported as stolen in the morning, so it needed to blend in. Even better if the owner didn’t have enough money to bribe his claim to the top of the work queue. With luck, it would be a month or two before the report was even filed.
“Aha,” I muttered as my eyes rested on the perfect ride. An old gas-burning sedan, which was probably cobalt blue ten years ago, sat rusting in one of the furthest spaces from the building’s elevator. Not only could the owner not afford to maintain the car, he also couldn’t afford a reserved parking space. The tires were nearly bald, but serviceable. A few flecks of blue paint still clung to the rust and gray primer that dominated most of the vehicle. The windows were intact, and either darkly tinted or very dirty. This was my new ride.
I pulled on the handle and the driver’s side door popped open with a squeak. The owner probably wouldn’t even care if it got stolen, granted they had another way to get around town. Given the amount of dust inside, they were already relying on the metro. Gas wasn’t getting any cheaper, and taking the train was usually more cost-effective than burning fuel. Most people had electric cars these days, but finding an old smokemaker was a hell of a lot cheaper way to pick up some wheels—but when someone is that broke, they probably can’t afford to keep it running.
Leaning in under the steering wheel, I popped the electrical panel off from under the dash, threw it in the back, and dug through the wiring harness inside. Finding what I was looking for, I yanked two wires free and twisted them together. I pulled a third loose and ran it across the exposed copper of the other two. Sparks jumped from the contact, and the engine roared to life. I gave it some gas to keep it running, shimmied up into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door closed. I tested the wheel and found it locked in place, but a good jerk broke the steering lock and I was ready to go. As luck would have it—and at this point, I was surprised I had any luck left—the old car had nearly a full tank.
A rainbow of neon flashed by like the thoughts flowing through my mind as I drove down the road. Everything was pointing towards Sergei and Dreamworks. The victim, Evie Simms, was one of his employees. James Talbot, the mayor’s brother, was making regular payments to the flesh bar through shell companies and was a known associate of several high-ranking Russian mobsters. A likely regular customer was Kristoff Tomlinson—the mayor’s son and Talbot’s nephew—and he was hunted down and killed by the Bratva enforcer Boris just days after Evie’s murder. And now Gregory—who was also working for the Russians—had confessed to slicing her ID off and dumping it at the club. I didn’t think Sergei was the mastermind pulling the strings, but if nothing else, he was a fly caught in the center of the web. What wasn’t making sense was how Evie was mixed up in all of it.
The routine flash of angular neon and lettering faded as I approached Berdino, replaced with glowing adverts which were no less garish, but more refined in form. Purple, red, blue, green, and yellow all twisted into the forms of palm trees, cocktails, and dancing girls. The towering tenements of Can Town gave way to lower structures that had space between them for lawns and above-ground parking. Names like ‘The Upper Room’, ‘Nightingales’, and ‘Amonar’s Grotto’ graced the face of progressively more ornate buildings with robust architectural elements like porte-cochères, columns, and marble facades.
Dreamworks sat on a corner lot like a diamond nestled atop a pile of gemstones. Bright green lettering spelled out the name of the place, bordered on either side by tasteful yet suggestive female forms wrought in purple neon. I didn’t bother pulling up to the valet in the old beater. Better to find a shadowy spot in the alley behind the club. As I walked around to the front, the smooth notes of soft jazz were already filling my ears. It was a far cry from the thumping bass permeating most of the city; just another sign I was on the other side of the tracks.
The bouncer at the door, a brick house in a suit with a shaved head, held up a hand to stop me before I even got close. I pulled my badge out of the jeans and flashed it just quick enough for him to get a glint of bronze, but not long enough to read the name underneath. That was assuming he could read, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Business or pleasure?” he asked, his gravelly voice devoid of patience as other, more appropriately attired patrons approached from the valet stand.
“Business,” I said as I shoved the badge back in my pocket.
“Mister Zaetsyev isn’t conducting official business tonight. You’ll have to call for an appointment.”
“He asked me to put fifty on his favorite horse,” I said, holding my arm out and flashing my bar code. I tried to keep it in the shadows. The bruiser probably wouldn’t care it was a fresh splice, but I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
“Fifty, eh? He’s usually more generous with his bets.” The bouncer crossed his arms and planted himself squarely in front of the entrance.
Dammit. I knew I was low-balling the guy, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “Did I say fifty? I meant a hundred.”
“That sounds more like it.” The big man pulled his phone out of his suit jacket, tapped a few times, then held it out. I checked the numbers on the screen to make sure he set it to pull a hundred dollars and not a penny more, then held my wrist under the screen. A blue glow lit my barcode, barely visible through the transparent pane of glass filled with the banking app’s interface, and a dull chime signaled they completed the transaction. As the bouncer put the phone away, he added, “I hope the horse doesn’t get out of line. Hate to see it retired early.”
His meaning was as clear as the bribe had been. I nodded as he stood aside, then made my way into the club. I was looking for answers, not trouble, but the threat would not dissuade me from doing what I needed to get what I was after.
The front room looked as it had the other day: velvet couches lined with men in suits and women in much less. I refrained from taking a good look around, kept my head down, and headed straight for the door to the back rooms. The busty blond at the bar shouted something about having to register for a VR suite before heading back. Another bouncer took a step over with a hand held out to stop me, but a quick flash of the bronze shield was all it took to change his mind. I was confident everybody on the Dreamworks payroll was at least aware there was dirty laundry in the back, but not being bankrolled enough to get in my way if they were working the front. It was the goons behind the locked doors hiding Sergei’s secrets I had to worry about.
The first of these doors was only twenty feet down the hall. Sergei’s office, where Frank and I had met with the Russian club owner under the pretense of a code enforcement inspection. We chased a circumstantial pair of leads: our victim’s cyberjack and the expensive paint chip next to the dumped body. Honestly, we were chasing a hunch more than a lead, but it paid off. We found out Evie Simms didn’t show up for her shift that day at the club, and a later search of her apartment revealed the scene of the murder.
Now, the threads wound their way back here. Somebody took Evie’s body to Monterey Park and dumped her naked in the rain while Gregory dumped the identification tattoo at Dreamworks. I still didn’t know who was calling the shots, but the calls came through the desk behind these double doors.
They were locked. Probably the first of many doors I’d have to kick in before I found the truth behind Evie’s murder, and the evidence I needed to clear my name. Hardened leather met heavy oak with a crash. Wood splintered around the aluminum lock, and bits of hardware clinked as it skidded across the marble floor. I strode into the center of the room and drew my pistol before the doors banged against the jams and swung back closed behind me. The rest of the hardware crashed to the floor as the doors drifted back open, their broken malaise a parody of so many souls losing themselves in the virtual reality suites down the hallway.
Sergei spun around in the chair behind his desk, his jaw hanging open wider than that of the red-haired strumpet whose head was in his lap. She jumped to her feet and let out a shriek of surprise, her bare breasts swaying back and forth as she tried to decide which way to run. I waved the gun to my left, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she ran past and fled the office.
Sergei struggled to close his pants, all the suave demeanor once held in check by his tuxedo and bow tie now gone with his most personal of assets exposed. “What the hell? Who the fuck do you think—” Recognition dawned in his eyes and anger turned to shock, then melted away to be replaced by fear. “Harold Jacobson? You were already a dead man before tonight, but after this your fuse just got cut short.”
The slick Russian reached under his desk, either going for a piece or a panic button, but I was sliding over the polished redwood before he found what he was looking for. Both feet took him square in the chest and sent him crashing to the ground. The floor-to-ceiling screens covering the wall behind him displayed a tropical beach complete with nude sunbathers, all casting a bright glow on the prone figure in the otherwise dark room.
I sat on the edge of the desk, the gun held casually in one hand as I fished out my smokes. “I need to talk to your girl.”
“Then why did you wave her out?”
“Not that one. The one hooked up to your server.”
“Impossible. She’s working,” Sergei said, waving his hand in dismissal as he sat up and tried to regain his composure.
“Then unplug her.”
“I can’t do that. If I unplug the system in the middle of operations, it’ll render her, and everybody connected to her, catatonic. My nightclub would be a vegetable patch.”
“There’s got to be safeguards. Some sort of emergency exit protocol. Turn it off... Now.” I jabbed the pistol towards him on the last word, just to make sure I got my point across. Shadows flitted across the wall as two figures entered the room behind me. “And tell your goons to head outside, unless you think they’re faster than a bullet.”
The shadows stopped. Sergei glared at me, silent while he considered his odds. He must have decided he wasn’t a gambling man that night, because he waved the goons off. He climbed to his feet, smoothed out the rumpled tuxedo, and added, “But, you’re just putting off the inevitable. They’re going to come for you twice as hard after this.”
I followed Sergei down the hall towards his server room with the gun leveled at the small of his back. All the time, I was hoping ‘they’ would come after me. At least then I could find out who they were and deal with them face-to-face instead of chasing shadows.