No requiem for the tin m.., p.16
No Requiem for the Tin Man, page 16
“Cat? Big rat?” he asked.
“Maybe we shook something loose.” I gulped in air until I could control my intake.
“You don’t scare so easy.”
“After Powell Street? I’ve been jumpy.” Glancing over at Hayes, he appeared unsettled too. “What’s your excuse?”
“Flanders.” He didn’t need to say more.
In the side parlor, piles of books scattered across the floor.
“What a mess,” Hayes grumbled. “What a —”
He made a sudden bee line to the middle of the room and started a crazed search through one of the many piles of books.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Oh, but that question got answered the minute I stepped into the room. Gun smoke. Cordite. The pile of books centered in the room? Just the right size to cover a body.
I had to wonder if he would appreciate being coffined in literature. He’d always presented himself as a fine, educated man. Then again, do dead men care? Dr. Frederick Gruber wouldn’t. He didn’t have time. The single shot entered his forehead and I didn’t want to look at how it exited the back. His expression was mildly surprised.
As we unburied him, I could see he was in fashionable togs, but no shoes. That explained the shoes in the bedroom. Of course, they were close in size to Gus, Frederick was his brother, but they were too posh for a hospitalized veteran. What was Dr. Gruber doing in the bungalow?
Green Eyes flung the book he had in one hand clean across the room. It smashed into the wall.
“I take it you know who this guy is? If not, I will introduce you.”
He didn’t answer. I’m pretty good at guessing. Hayes went to stand in the doorway, pressing his hands against the frame like Sampson pushing the temple pillars apart.
My brain went into evidentiary mode. I lifted Frederick’s shoulder.
“Don’t move the body.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to, Hayes. But he’s laying on something. It might be important.”
He smashed a fist into the door frame and turned back to me. “I’m calling the PD and you’re getting out of here. I’ll handle this.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I honest-to-God prayed I wasn’t looking at what I thought I was looking at. “Hayes?”
The G-man started digging through all the piles of books he’d tossed aside. “Where the hell is the telephone?”
“Hayes?”
“They have to have one.”
I sucked in any revulsion I had to the amount of blood and worse from Gruber’s head shot and rolled the doctor onto his stomach.”
“Jesus Christ, Lou! I said, don’t move the body!”
All I had to do was point.
Uncovered, and in slightly better light, it was worse than it appeared before. And damn it, I was right.
Two bundles of dynamite, a detonator, and a timer. The clock-style timer hands were about to meet.
All I remember was an arm lifting me off my feet. Hitting the door frame as I was carried at a run. Helping to shove open the front door. Feeling grass, then sidewalk, then —
The Powell Street bomb all over again.
This time the shock wave hit instantly, blowing me over. As I grappled with space and time, big hands yanked me into the same space I’d hidden Howie’s Aerolift bike. Glass, debris, and the bike fell onto us.
When the wave had ridden over and dissipated, we were left cling to one another, Hayes and me, life rafts in an ocean of lost sound and fiery images. I crawled in under his coat. I think he was trying to crawl into his hat, but at least he was trying to take me with him.
His heart or mine? Ours? Something was pounding harder than a jackhammer and I’ve heard quieter from a steam engine whistle. I didn’t want to let go of him. He was alive. I was alive.
We both reacted to the sirens. Fires in this city are no joke. The whole fire brigade must have been descending on us.
Hayes pushed the motor bike off of us. “Will this dingus run?”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
“We’re leaving.” His voice was stone cold, yet a little shake got into it. One I knew he wouldn’t appreciate any comment on.
“We can’t. There may be people hurt out there.”
He gave me an entire lecture with a glare from those green eyes. This was no time for me to be a sap. Sirens equal help. Help for those in need. I wasn’t able to do anything better than they could.
We can’t be seen.
Until Hayes can work his magic with the cops, I can’t be seen.
I’ll never be able to explain away my presence here twice, each time ending in a disaster.
Gawkers. More and more of them arrived until there was a serious crowd around the burning bungalow.
There goes all the evidence to clear Gus.
Well ... not all.
Hayes pulled his fedora down hard and climbed over the back fence. I quietly wheeled the Aerolift motorbike out into the crowd, asked a couple of questions as if I knew nothing at all, then straddled the bike to drive away casually. I had to go get Hayes.
Fluttering down from the sky came pieces of leaflet. I knew that paper. Hundreds of pieces fell on the crowd.
Chapter Twenty
“Dick. I’m a Private Dick. You can say it.”
“Detective. You took me there to look. We looked. Now I handle the evidence, okay? All up-‘n-up. For Gus’s sake, everything has to hold up in court. Agreed?”
The sides of my mouth nearly reached the asphalt.
“Lou?”
Hell of a place for an argument. Smoke rose from the bungalow on 41st and the sirens never stopped. Yet, we were far enough away now. I brought Hayes here to clear his head and to show him where I was delayed by the Garbage ‘Bot.
Apparently he thought I’d brought him here to argue.
Fog blotted out most of the treetops but the wind still made its presence known. The park was free of humans, in theory, but the flora and fauna were doing their nightly thing all the same.
Every once in a while, Hayes had to shake his head, which made steering the flying horse a real challenge. Stopping for a break in the Park was a good idea overall.
“Agreed, on two conditions,” I said, not only unwilling to argue but not willing to fully surrender my collected evidence. It was all that was left. The cops weren’t sharing what little they’d bothered to obtain. Gus was taking the fall for someone and now Frederick was dead.
“I know better than to say, ‘shoot.’ Go ahead, Lou.”
“One: you give me access to this stuff,” I indicated one of my prizes — the lighter.
“So long as I have them, you got access. What’s number two?”
Oh damn, he was leaning over to me again. Rugged. Weathered. Still too pretty. I don’t handle pretty with half the brilliance I handle your average .45 pistol.
“Two: I get to give you a lift all the way home.”
“Fine. But only to the Federal Building downtown.”
I mocked being aghast. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Only when I’m not stalking alleyways for blood to drink.”
“Humph. No fair. You stole the punch line.”
“Aww,” he said with absolutely no sincerity. “And I have a condition for you?”
“Me?”
“Don’t!” He actually wagged his finger at me. “Don’t you dare bat your eyelashes at me, woman. It’s been an awful night.”
“Would I do that to you?”
“Yes. You already have. I’ve got a list of the times.”
“A whole list? Green Eyes, I’ll need a copy of that list to believe you.”
After he recovered from cringing at being called Green Eyes, he grinned snidely. “Would you like it alphabetically or chronologically?”
“Alright, alright. What do you want?”
He narrowed those eyes at me. “You drop me off downtown, then you go home and stay there.”
“Hayes —.”
“No ‘buts.’ I haven’t finished clearing your name and I don’t want the cops picking you up until I’ve cleaned up the mess you’re in. Got it!”
I saluted like one of those chorus girls wearing a sweet little version of a uniform.
He got close to me again, but I held the salute.
And if I thought he was getting close in that moment, it was nothing compared to the ride home. His head fit on my shoulder — his reach perfectly encircled my waist. Hayes barely fit behind me and I suspected he resented having to take a back seat to a skirt. Ah, he’d get over it. There wasn’t anyone around to see him trundled off by a dame. Besides, he insisted that I leave him two blocks from the Hall of Justice, insuring that no one would ever know.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, Hayes. Just ask.”
“Now. Go home, Lou, and lock your door. Don’t answer it unless it’s me. Don’t even open it for Marley.”
“More orders. You love giving orders, don’t you.”
“You betcha’.”
Dismounting from the bike, he gave a last once-over, whistled, and muttered his admiration.
“Why, thank you Big Boy. If tonight had been less exciting and horrible, I’d be tempted to say you’re pretty swell too.”
I gunned the motor and sped away, certain he shouted something about “I was talking about the cycle!” It would have been the perfect exit, except ...
The boom.
Green Eyes spun around and stared east.
I slammed on the breaks. Oh God! Not another bomb!
Two glowing orbs, either of which could have been mistaken for the moon, floated beside the unfinished Bay Bridge. I swear a hand reached out and ripped cables out of the suspension section before whatever it was retreated behind rocks and structures like a bad child afraid of getting caught.
Descending behind Yorba Buena island into the dark waters of the Bay, the orbs blinked, then vanished. Yet they left a tremendous wake that anyone could see in the lights from the Oakland port facilities reflecting off the waves and the sudden flailing of ships in the harbor.
The bridge damage looked small from up on Market, but I knew from my inside source this set back the project by months, if not years.
I glared back to Hayes, expecting him to be as shellshocked as I was. Instead, he was a man as terrified yet fuming as anyone I’d encountered. Left to my vivid imagination, the Agent who turned on his heel and marched toward his office, knew more than he was sharing with me. About the glowing orbs. About the booming. About this whole business with ... well, damn near everything.
Vulnerable. Yeah, that’s the word I was thinking of. I gunned that flying horse and high-tailed it out of there with a plan.
I hid Howie’s Aerolift cycle in what I call a secure place. A small garage on the edge of Chinatown near Sacramento and Kearny. A little garage owned by a friend, with a big, snarling and drooling dog next door. Then made my way back to my office instead of directly home — in case I was being followed. Fine, call me paranoid, but from the moment I left Hayes at the Federal Building, I had feeling someone was tailing me. And I hated that every pop and bang jolted my nerves, making me hop like a Mexican Jumping Bean.
My best paranoid scenario was that some smooth new gumshoe looking to learn the trade by copying me or stealing a case out from under me was glued to my keister, so I decided to play it cool. I strolled my little-ole-self down the sidewalk, then out into the street, as if I would cross it, but then whipped around on my heel. I know these blocks well. Well lit, few cars or doorways to hide with.
Nada.
Not a person on either side of the whole street. And quiet too. The street a few blocks up was busy enough, but not so much that it provided cover for a rhythmic squeak. The fog horns out at the Gate were singing like a choir deep inside a cathedral, but all that was present was that squeak.
Movement? In the shadows.
A little ‘Bot was lumbering along at a medium pace with empty milk bottles in a padded basket, to avoid loud glass clinking at the unholy hour of 4 AM. It’s morning route, programed into its little brain the night before. One wheel was slightly askew, which accounted for the squeak.
Yeah, no one was there. But the feeling in my gut didn’t go away. I wasn’t too far from that thoroughfare. Maybe I could spot my tail in the busier intersection.
Pulling my collar up against the damp, I rushed up the other side of the street, keeping close to the parked cars that I might want to use for cover or protection.
At the intersection, I darted over to the ‘Crawler stand and pushed the call button. A beam of light shot up into the sky, blockaded from getting too high by the fog. Didn’t matter too much if the beacon didn’t reach the heavens, it still managed to do the job of alerting the taxi system.
Squeak.
I spun around as the little ‘Bot passed me.
That wasn’t possible. I all but ran up here, and that little, squat robot was trundling along. How?
My thoughts were interrupted by the stunningly immediate arrival of a ‘Crawler. The egg-shaped, white vehicle pulled over on the siding track to the pick-up point, and the passenger door opened for me. That was the fastest ‘Crawler response time I’d ever had. Ever.
Getting inside, I gave the address to my office on Market into a brass horn. Some operator, way off down near Fisherman’s Wharf, calculated the cost and programed the vehicle. Once the coins were officially received in the meter, the door locked and we were off down the rail system that would work its way over to Market near 9th Street.
Did I feel guilty that I’d promised Hayes I’d go straight home? Not one bit, ‘cause I hadn’t promised him anything. I’d saluted him. I’d made no promises. I gestured, that’s it.
All the way there, however, the console bleeped and blinked. I thought that at any moment, the damn thing might explode. But, no. I made it safe and sound, albeit via the long way. I supposed the lost five or seven minutes didn’t matter. The price was the same and it gave me time to see if anyone was following me. So, I kept any complaints to myself, as I took my receipt and climbed out.
One good thing about the world’s slowest elevator: it’s the noisiest too. If anyone managed to follow me after all of this, they’d never be able to disguise their approach while riding that thing.
Something cast a shadow across my frosted door, and it moved. Were it Marley, she would have music on. If Sam was there with her, they’d be yakking and have the music on. It was too early for her anyway. I left Hayes back at the Hall, so ...
A third search of my office? Would somebody’s goon or goons be so desperate as to search my office a third time? That’s dedication.
I drew the rod from my pocket and carefully pulled back the hammer. Damn good thing it doesn’t make that annoying clicking sound they always use in the movies. The doorknob turned. Guess they didn’t think to lock the door after they got in. Not too bright these gorillas. Cut rate.
I swung open the door. “Can’t you hoods get anything right the ... first time?”
A short, squat, unpretentious ‘Bot rotated on its main axis towards me, its appendages clasped politely together. Its head tilted to the side and back, like a Cocker Spaniel, and the round eye-scanners blinked. They do that. It’s supposed to make them seem more human and therefore less threatening. Nobody ever explained to them that humans are the most threatening animal on the planet. And humanoid-like, emotion-lacking machines are just as scary.
Yet, this was a small ‘Bot, compared to what was available out there. Maybe three to three and a half feet tall. Brushed metal exterior. A little backpack, that gave me a sense that it was childlike. Unadorned arms ending in hands operating with springs and tiny hydraulics. I’d almost go as far as to say it was dainty.
“What are you doing here?”
“I perceive that you are Miss Lucille Tanner? A licensed Private Detective?” The voice box produced a tinny series of pre-recorded words strung together like popcorn for a Christmas tree decoration, all as a response, although I would have expected it to respond to my question, not to ask me one.
“Yeah. I’m Lou Tanner,” I replied, keeping my heater aimed at its head.
“Thank you. I am H-JO-NES234, Caretaker Services.”
“If you’re peddling your owner company’s goods, you’ve come to the wrong place. I can take care of myself.”
“That is incorrect.” It blinked.
“Say again?”
“You are incorrect.”
“About which thing I mentioned?”
“All.”
I hate that you have to interrogate every ‘Bot for the most basic information. “You’re here pushing sales for your owner’s company?”
“Incorrect.”
“You’re in the wrong place?”
“Incorrect.”
“Great. Why are you here?”
“I am here with regards to your last statement. Quote: “I can take care of myself.” Unquote. This is also incorrect.”
“Says who?” I demanded, feeling an urge to plant a swift kick into its backside while pushing it out my door.
“Two million, one hundred fourteen thousand, five hundred and six mechanical beings residing in the Greater San Francisco Metropolitan Bay Area. You are in danger. Your companion human, Agent Christopher Hayes of the War Department, is in danger.” The ‘Bot rolled forward. “This city is in danger.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Danger, huh? According to whom?”
“Two million, one hundred fourteen —”
“Skip it!”
“Our analysis indicates extreme hazard, especially for you and for human Agent Hayes.” Blink.
Reluctantly, since my stomach and banging forehead were still overwhelmed by the situation, I chose to put my heater away before I accidentally shot it. I walked through the office, sidling past the dainty ‘Bot and over to the other side of Marley’s desk. I sat down harder than I meant to. “Okay, ‘Bot, what’s your story? I’m not saying I believe you, I mean, me and Hayes are always getting into trouble of some sort. It’s the job. So, what do you know that makes today different?”
