Life is a crime wave, p.6
Life is a Crime Wave, page 6
Chuck kept him as a strong “maybe.”
The third candidate, Vicky Monroe, was a local girl. Age 28. She went to Earth for undergrad work but got her JD at New Venice Colonial University. Had to be a story behind that, but Chuck wasn’t seeing it. Engaged to a coworker in the PD office. Extensive volunteer work in the community, mainly with kids. Presumably, she was trying to put herself out of a job by heading them off before a life of crime that didn’t pay well enough for a real lawyer.
Without anything that could rule her out, Chuck had to keep Vicky in the running.
Izzy Carmichael, age 37, seemed like a career burnout. Married three times. Divorced three times. Two kids, both deceased. She’d earned her law degree the hard way, going back to school in her thirties for a midlife career change. Used to be a social worker. Kind of a shitty one, Chuck imagined, if she couldn’t see three dud husbands in advance. Worked as a public defender for three years with no apparent aspirations beyond.
As much as he’d like to eliminate Izzy, mostly out of pity, he just couldn’t find grounds.
Harry Prescott, on the flip side, was one Chuck hoped could be their puppet lawyer. At forty-five years of age, he was the second eldest of the group and the one with the best career behind him. WAY behind him. Good ole Harry had gotten himself a Yale sheepskin and a job at a solid law firm on Earth. But he’d fucked it all up with a colossal string of bad decisions. From tax evasion to obstruction of justice, he’d pleaded and haggled and escaped with parole and a suspended law license. Once his suspension ended, he got a middling gig on Titan, where he proceeded to sleep with a high school intern. Somehow, amazingly, he avoided prison, didn’t even lose his license again, but lost his job. He then bounced around the galaxy until landing in the New Venice public defenders’ office.
However, unfortunately, Chuck discovered that he’d been connected with the Ruckers in a tax sheltering scheme on Mars. If that didn’t rule him out for representing a Rucker associate, practically nothing would.
Shit.
Four out of the five were still options.
A dull red dawn was peeking over the horizon, seen in the glint off the eastern faces of buildings across from the hotel. Chuck had hoped to have more to go on by now, but public records didn’t give him anything to narrow down the search except for Harry Fucking Prescott.
Bart and Georgie showed up with four boxes of takeout donuts in a variety of flavors, plus recharges for the suite’s overworked coffeemaker.
“Any luck?” Bart inquired as Chuck poured dark roast into a freshly-rinsed mug.
Coffee fumes hit the back of Chuck’s sinuses like a bolt of lightning. “Got one ruled out. Did a little work for your crew back on Mars. They’d never let him near this case.”
Georgie nodded. “It’s something. I’ll keep my guys on it.” He pulled out his datapad.
Rather than drink, Chuck held the cup as it wafted a tantalizing aroma that promised to keep him awake just a little longer. “Wait…”
“That sounds like an idea coming,” Bart observed, angling his head to regard Chuck with one eye wider than the other. “What’chu thinking?”
“Hire them.”
Bart burst out laughing. “Chuck. Get some sleep. I’ve got stim dealers probably thinking straighter than you right now.”
Chuck chugged a swig of scalding coffee. “No, no. Hear me out. These lawyers, they’re mostly all miserable. Only one maybe took this job because she wanted it. They’re all either trying to climb out of it or fell there and can’t get back up. You know people. Pull strings. Get them job offers. Pay bumps. Benefits. Make them offers they can’t refuse…
“Because the one who can will be the one with Earth Interstellar ready to make them a career off this SOCCS case.”
Bart’s wide eyes unfocused. Chuck didn’t dare interrupt.
Georgie wasn’t so considerate. “And we end up with three dud lawyers?”
“Considering what we’re paying for this job already?” Bart asked rhetorically. “Let me make some comms. Georgie, get your guys on the building today, just in case.”
“No problay-mo, Uncle Bart.” The young gangster began tapping immediately. For the sake of data intercepts, he hoped they used codes.
A few minutes later, Bart shut down his datapad. “All right. It’s in the works. Now, Chuck, I’m getting tired just looking at you, and I got a full night’s sleep. Go to bed.”
With a hand jittering from subsisting on caffeine alone for the past ten hours, Chuck offered a salute. “Yes, sir.”
Déjà vu set in as Brad and Nissa approached Earl Rucker’s house. He’d taken his hoverbike, mostly because he liked the way Nissa clung to him in flight. That hadn’t mixed well with his suit coat, so he’d left that back at the hotel room he lived out of these days and opted for a black leather jacket in its place.
Nissa looked hot as ever, a living trail of smoke wherever she went. It was personal bias, he knew, since she was sleeping at his place most nights, but he didn’t care. Part of her charm was the utter lack of pretense. She knew he was a spacer bouncing around the galaxy, only hoping to find a place to land. He knew he was the flavor of the month, and she was as liable to get sick of him as come home with him after the party.
And she knew he was here for work.
“Hi, Corey,” she greeted C-man at the door, then kissed Brad goodbye and headed inside.
“Evening, Nissa,” C-man replied politely even after she’d turned her back on them.
Brad took up a position beside the door with C-man. “What’s the quick on this one?”
“Nothing special. You know most of the people you need to know. They get in, obviously. Anyone else, you don’t like the look of them, stop them. Maybe they hassle you. Maybe they just walk away. I got your back either way. Same for you if I stop someone. Don’t matter why. We don’t take bribes. Blasters on stun.”
Brad opened his jacket and made a quick check of his. “On stun.”
“Solid. No drinking. There ever any trouble, we go in hot. Get sore feet. Lean against something. Gotta piss, bushes are thataway.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“Easy job, but you gotta stay on it. Keep the shaders on, too. If you can’t see too good, I can hook you up with a couple brands that do more hiding your eyes than blocking light.”
Now that C-man mentioned it, Brad was struggling a little. Earl’s house had front yard floodlights bathing the walkway leading up to the front door, but they were barely enough to overcome Brad’s shaders. “I’ll push through tonight, but yeah, I’ll take some advice on a better pair.”
They’d arrived early. Nissa was only allowed in ahead of time because she was family. Partygoers started arriving once the appointed hour struck, and the job started in earnest.
Like last time he was here, the crowd was a mix of high school and college students. He’d yet to discover who invited all these people or how word got around. Apparently, you had to know someone who knew someone, but Brad supposedly knew everyone now. Then again, he had found out about it, albeit as more of a “this is your evening’s work” rather than any hint of an invitation.
Music played, muted from the porch where they were stationed.
Brad and C-man sized up the guests. They were basically a turnstile. Everyone was getting in.
“How you liking this so far?” C-man asked casually.
“Beats school.”
His companion got a laugh out of that. “See? You keep up that attitude, you’ll go places. Get so many punks trying to get a ride on the tram. Nothing but bitching. Like they expect easy money to be free.”
“I’ve worked harder for a lot less money. Nah, not harder. Just… I’ve done some shit work. This is just work work.”
A gaggle of girls about Brad’s age wandered past, and Brad just watched the whole way.
“And the fringe benefits are pretty smooth, too,” he added once the gaggle was out of earshot.
“Nissa talks out of school about you, you know,” C-man mentioned casually.
It was Brad’s turn for a laugh. “No shit. She tried to pass me around last party.”
“And…?”
“Got interrupted. She didn’t say anything this time. Don’t know if that’s just because I’m on door duty or she changed her mind about sharing.”
“Don’t go getting too attached. She ain’t kept one guy too long. Don’t take it personal.”
Brad shrugged. “Can’t help but take it personal. Just won’t take it too bad. I’m a little young to be picking out tuxedos and nominating a best man.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but you sound like a goddamn fifty-year-old. Not some kid.”
They paused their chat every time new guests arrived, mostly to keep a veil of professionalism. One quartet of square-jawed assholes in matching jackets struck a nerve in Brad. Clearly basketball players at the local private high school, they were rowdy and already drunk.
For the first time, Brad stepped in the way of the door. “Not tonight, guys. Find somewhere else.”
“Get the fuck out of my way,” the leaders of the basketballers told him.
Brad didn’t budge. He pulled back the flap of his jacket, showing his blaster. “We having a hard time hearing me? Go cause trouble somewhere else.”
For a second, Brad thought maybe these guys were just drunk enough and stupid enough that he’d have to draw his weapon. Nothing ruined the fun of a nice party like blaster fire. But after a tense few seconds of posturing, the troublemakers backed down. “Fuck this scratchy place anyway.”
“I’d have let ’em through,” C-man commented without judgment.
“Well, last time, those were exactly the types who dragged Janice—”
“Miss Janice.”
“Who dragged Miss Janice into a room passed out.”
“Fair. But it wasn’t those guys.”
Brad gave a slight nod. “Won’t be on my watch, either.”
Other revelers piled in, and despite similar looks now and then, Brad didn’t get that same “you’re going to do something” vibe off the rest.
Once the festivities were in full swing, the aforementioned Miss Janice showed up. Brad could hardly believe she had the guts to get back on the bike after the spill she took last time. Then again, by all accounts, she’d been completely out of it. Maybe no one had told her all that had happened.
Dressed to kill in a red halter and black skirt, she leered playfully at C-man on the way by. He acknowledged her with a simple nod and a subdued, “Miss Janice.” When she got to Brad, without pausing her gait, she ran a finger along his jawline, just brushing slightly with a long, red-tinted fingernail.
“Miss Janice,” he croaked belatedly.
“She’s just playing with you. Don’t get ideas,” C-man warned once Janice and her coterie had disappeared inside.
Brad was a young man filled to overflowing with ideas. He just knew better than to act on any of them. He did, however, take a moment to lean against a wall to collect himself.
C-man covered for him while Brad’s mind was on the hazy side, and no one else drew their ire. But Brad’s tribulations hadn’t ended for the night.
Another guest Brad recognized waltzed up the walk like she owned the place. She’d come alone, though the chauffeur that dropped her off merely parked near the front gate.
Clad in sneakers, warm-up pants, and a tank top, black head to toe, Tania Rucker looked like she’d come straight from the gym. The only contravening facts were a full cosmo tint, lips, eye shadow, mascara, and freshly coiffed hair. She accessorized with spiked black leather bracelets and collar, and three pairs of earrings connected by little chains. Ornate rings adorned each finger, all twisted and edged to the point where they gave the impression of knuckledusters more than jewelry.
“Miss Tania,” C-man greeted her with a nod.
Brad imitated him. “Miss Tania.”
She paused at the door. “This the candidate?”
C-man shook his head. “Naw, just new blood. Don’t get me wrong, promising as hell.” C-man pinched Brad’s cheek and gave it a shake. “But I don’t think he’s quite ready for bodyguard detail.”
“Don’t be dense, Corey. Nissa and I talk.”
Brad felt his face warm.
“Nah. Not that either. Jimmy’s new project. Got a future. If he knows what’s good for him.”
Tania looked him up and down. “Does he talk?”
“Constantly. But… he knows what’s good for him.”
“Shame,” Tania commented offhandedly before ignoring them to head inside.
C-man let out a breath. “Don’t scare me like that, kid.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you did. Don’t do it again.”
“But how can I not do it if I don’t know what ‘it’ is?”
They’d talked plenty of shit as they waited outside between groups. Guy shit. Job shit. Behind people’s backs shit. But this was the first time he’d really lowered his voice like he was worried someone might overhear. “Depending how years shake out, and if you live long enough, you’ll be working for either her, Jimmy, or Miss Janice.”
“But…”
“Here’s the deal. Theo, God save him, won’t live forever, much as he’s trying. If he goes before anyone else in the family, Don takes over. Then, Miss Tania is heir apparent. If Don doesn’t outlive the old man, Earl takes over when Theo’s time is up. That would make Jimmy the new second in line. But if neither of them lasts as long as Theo, it jumps straight to Janice, since Angelo was older than both Don and Earl.”
Brad had flashbacks to colonial schoolrooms and teachers trying to hammer names of dead kings into his head for no reason he could conceive.
“So, don’t get cozy with the future boss. Got it.”
“Not that. Well, yes that. But more like, she’s off your scanners.”
“So, no boyfriends for her?”
“Sure. She dates whoever she feels like. She’s rich. Under all that shit she wears, nice looking kid. No problems picking out guys. Just not our guys. And count your lucky chickens, because she’s got a temper.”
“Nothing wrong with a temper. I always—”
Brad’s tram of thought was knocked off the rail by a slap to the back of his head that sent his shaders askew.
“What was that for?” he demanded.
C-man gave him a stern, fatherly look. “Your own good.”
It felt good getting out of the hotel suite. Legs needed stretching. Lousy holovids needed forgetting. There was more to life than donuts for breakfast, burgers for lunch, and pizza for dinner. Somewhere out there in the sickly red New Venice morning, there were also pancakes.
Mort took his pancakes as plain as they came. Simple flapjacks, the more circular the better, thick as a pencil, drenched in what passed for maple syrup in science lands.
He and Chuck were here to be seen. Dropped from the skies like messengers from the gods was no fit way to approach a skittish target. But coming out of a diner across the street, after a big breakfast at a reasonable price… what could be more innocuous?
Beryl’s Diner reeked of the modern attempting to impersonate the traditional. Red plastic fabric and chrome-clad metallics ruled this aesthetic. Cooks worked on fry tops within arm’s reach of the counter. Every meal came doused in grease.
Never one to question food prepared within eyeshot, Mort enjoyed his pancakes under the guise of Dave Dempsey, an itinerant cargo handler stranded here by a defunct employer by the name of Gorgon Multiplanetary. Chuck had worked out all the details of their ruse. He played the role of Jake Poole, an old buddy who happened to live here on Barnard’s Star and took pity to help a friend.
“Can’t really get a meal like this on just any planet,” Mort commented sarcastically, since both of them knew that you could get this precise meal on any rock with more than three people living on it plus every space station large enough to name. Pancakes were available on Phabian and its colonies. Keru had their own native variety that only differed when including optional toppings.
“Or coffee this good,” Chuck retorted, offering a toast with the blandest of artificial bean juice. “When we get to Kingsley’s office, let me do the talking. I’ve dealt with lawyers before. Those bastards won’t get away with treating you like this.”
“I’m not looking to get back at anyone,” Mort replied morosely between bites of some of the best pancakes he’d had in ages. Nothing against Michelle. She was a kid who cooked well for one. But someone with a passion for the craft had made these fluffy golden delights. “Just want what’s coming to me. Enough to book passage home would be a start.”
They kept to a reasonable volume but actually wanted to be overheard, at least a little. Chuck’s idea. Plausible motive.
“Dave, no one got ahead in this galaxy by taking what anyone gave out willingly. Those fuckers want to mess with your livelihood, you mess right back. Gotta get your share of the carcass before the vultures pick it clean.”
Mort quite enjoyed the vulture analogy. This Jake fellow was a damn sight more erudite than Chuck. Maybe with a little whammy on the side, he could keep this version when all was said and done.
Alas, the meal ended. Small talk checked off the list of boxes for this mission.
Frankly, so much of this was window treatments for the greenhouse. A little plausible deniability would be all these Ruckers needed for this to go off with nary a hitch. Everyone could take a nice alibi vacation, he could level a building, and Mort & Chuck LLC could collect fifty million terras.
Mort decided that these gangsters had seen too many gangster holos.
