Cog (12 page)

“I could use a couple of workouts, but I don’t think this will call for strenuous exercise.” She turned from the mirror and faced the two. “You want him alive, though, correct?”

“Yes,” Dran said.

A shame, she thought.

Dran reached into the drawer and threw an envelope on the desk. “Here’re your weapons and keys to a car. Your new identification has been processed through Social Security, so you’re legit. Our contacts say Nicholle and her boyfriend visited a guy named Tuma, a mid-level gangster on the edge of town. Bowie, to be exact. She used to run pakz for him, back when she was on the street. They have a past. Bring her in, too.”

“And the boyfriend?”

“You can kill him. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

“Without a doubt.” She snatched up the envelope.

“Which car?”

“Blue Octavian 250. And try not to wreck it.”

Yeah, right
.

Chapter 12

“Welcome to Bowie” the sign read. Once a gleaming testament to a thriving enclave, now a rusted dent of metal that heralded a crime-ridden town bereft of public services.

Trash tumbleweeded down Annapolis Road on its way to the parking lots of abandoned stores. The burned hull of a bus sat atop a downed bus shelter, as if the driver failed to slow to pick up the passengers but instead mowed them under.

Nicholle would have felt more comfortable coming in daylight, but things being what they were, she had no choice.

The enclaves had been self-contained towns that grew food and provided jobs for those within. The area’s answer to scarce gas and high prices. Anyone wanting to leave had to obtain authorization for extra gas. As a result, most family reunions, business deals, and friendly visits happened over wiho.

Then came high-efficiency batteries and fuel cells. People abandoned the enclaves for the purlieus. Lower income families filled in the gap, and when they began moving up and out, the criminal element moved in.

Tuma had the run of Bowie Town Center. You could get it all there. Pakz, skeemz, prostitutes, gambling. A local Las Vegas. Only without the one hundred-degree heat.

“You sure this is it?” Chris asked, dubiously.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Make a left here.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see Tuma. He, ah, and she, heads up the Tets in this area.”

“He and she?”

“Tuma’s a dual-sexer. He can change at will, drawing up his well, you know. His breasts fold in. His face is effeminate, like a woman’s, yet with a strong jaw, like a man’s. When I first saw him—I call him ‘him’—I didn’t know what to think. I just kept staring at him, on the sly.”

Thinking about him brought back memories. They used to talk long into the night together, sometimes as girlfriends, sometimes as more when he made the switch. It was weird, having your best friend and lover in the same person. He knew about women, from a personal perspective. Not exactly the typical pakz and skeemz dealer. But he was shrewd. Could sniff out a deal from fifty miles away. In a different reality, he could have been a corporate executive. Given Wills a run for his money.

Of course, he had looked at Nicholle as his ticket out, and treated her like that. She would get little extras and special attention, which pissed off some of the other rackers. Not that she cared what they thought, but when Tuma wasn’t looking, they gave her hell.

She could only imagine what Tuma would do when he saw her. Maybe kill her on the spot. But this time, she was in a position to offer a stake in a legitimate company. Yeah, she was on the run from the Feds and dead broke, but he didn’t have to know about the broke part.

“Where to?”

“Keep straight and make a left at the light.”

Street lamps lined the road. But they stood silent and dark against the frame of night, victims of the shutdown in public services or vandalism. Even the traffic lights were dark.

Nicholle rolled down her window. The sound of drag-racing roared faintly in the distance, farther up 450. The road was pretty much a straight shot, perfect for the illegal sport. But racers took their life in their hands. No ambulances came out here.

They turned into the shopping plaza. A faded, battered yellow sign read “Welcome to Tuma’s.” Only “Tuma’s” looked as if someone blowtorched the letters on a piece of metal and soldered it onto the existing sign that had read “Bowie Town Center.”

The plaza was livelier than the main road. Cars filled the front part of the parking lot of the Great Goods building, where the prostitutes worked. Later on, any customer who found a parking space would be lucky. Neon lights lit up the darkness, firing pink and blue, like a disco muezzin, calling the faithful to party.

A large gate blocked the entrance to Tuma’s, manned by five guards with guns. Snipers patrolled the roof of four of the buildings, walking back and forth, watching the people below. She’d seen them take out troublemakers with one bullet to the forehead. Military veterans who’d been shafted by the VA often found their way here. Money under the table, just to make ends meet.

“Where now?” Chris said.

“Pull into that bank down the street. Tuma’s guards check all customers’ bank accounts to see if they have money to spend. If not, they get beaten and sent on their way.”

“So it doesn’t help that our accounts are pachuta. And he’s not likely to welcome you with a robe and ring like the prodigal son.”

“That’s where you come in.”

“I knew that tightness in my chest was for a good reason.”

Chris drove up a cracked, weed-infested driveway to a large brick building. The sign outside read “Adwele Bank,” but had been graffitied with a gang symbol, the name “Mazebo,” and the number 512. Mazebo had been killed a year ago, a casualty of a turf war.

“Fryer’s in the trunk. Be right back,” Chris said.

After retrieving the head gear, Chris slipped back into the seat beside her. “How much you want?”

“Fifty bill should do for now.”

“Don’t let ’em look too closely. I can match the versos on Bank Nigeria, but if you want the links, it’ll take a while.”

“They’re not that thorough. Once they see the dollar signs, the green glow of cash should take us in.”

Big rollers got deference to the infinity. That was one of the reasons Tuma’d been in the business so long—customer service. He had muscle working for him, cracking heads and collecting tibs, but Tuma himself focused on making the customers happy.

“Will they recognize you?” Chris said.

“Hard to say. He rotates the guards to prevent bribery. He could teach some things about business to CEOs.” Regarding business
and
pleasure. The latter’s what got him the seed money to take over Bowie Town Center. He paid off the few cops who had been caught out after the exodus. Bored and outnumbered, they succumbed to his monetary charms.

“Benefits, too?”

“If you can call a weekly visit to the cathouse a benefit.”

“Works for me.”

She hit him upside his head, but he had the fryer on.

“Just give me my money.”

“Now you sound like a pimp. I feel so used,” Chris said.

You don’t know what used is, she thought. Nicholle turned toward the window. Trash blossomed from a dumpster, fat vines of plastic bags clinging to the sides. A fetid odor had drifted in with Chris. It had crept into her sinuses and signaled, “Welcome back.”

“Okay, you’ve got fifty bill. I’ve got twenty-five.” He slid off the fryer. “So we’ll either be accepted with open arms or shot on sight.”

“Let’s hope it’s not the latter,” she said.

Chris started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot. They got in line behind the other cars and waited their turn at the gate.

“So this Tuma. He was your…”

His voice trailed off, leaving the missing words hanging in the air between them. What would Chris think of her if he knew the things she had done? She had to tell the truth, even if he would walk out on her.

“My supplier. Confidante. Pimp, of sorts. I was expected to ‘be nice’ to his best customers, but I could pick and choose. He never forced the issue, though. I could have refused.”

“Did you?”

“Let’s just say…” She paused. “I felt obligated.”

“I see.”

The tone in his voice spoke volumes. No, he didn’t see, and he never would. If you hadn’t been in the life, it was hard to explain. Probably a good thing.

“I’d take it all back if I could. After I ran out of money, I came home, did the twelve steps, found God, got a job, all that. Now all this happens and I’m back here where it started. If it weren’t for the medinites, I’d probably be using again.”

“We all make mistakes,” Chris said. “At least you got yourself together. A lot of people can’t say that. Believe me.”

He sounded as if he’d seen the life reflected in someone he knew. A friend? Girlfriend? It was a conversation they would have to have later on. If they survived. Any thoughts beyond surviving the next ten minutes were a waste of energy.

“Now when we get in you’re going to see some things you wish you hadn’t, assuming we make it in alive.” She offered up a silent prayer. “Just play along and act like you’ve seen it all your life.”

“Like what kinds of things?”

“You’ll see. Or maybe not. If he shoots us, you won’t have to worry about it.”

“Aren’t we optimistic? I thought you found God. You could at least pray we make it in.”

“I already did.” But she wondered why she was just now getting around to it.

She slid on sunglasses. They pulled up to the gate and she rolled down the window. She remembered the guard’s face, but not his name. Mo something or other.

Tuma lived at the other end of the plaza, inside Weisman’s—or what used to be Weisman’s, where one used to be able to find everything from automatic ovens to robot receptionists. From last she remembered, there were still a few left in the basement.

“You feemin’?” the guard said.

“Naw, we’re clean. Heard about this place from a friend and thought we’d check it out. Might be lookin’ to make an investment. Looks like you could use a spit shine,” Nicholle said.

The smaller stores lining the road sat empty, dark, the purview of skeemz programmers who languished in sealed-off doorways—old black-and-white magfields that sputtered open and shut, their solar cells deteriorated. Strobe-light scenes of dust-covered merchandise and animatronic mannequins still lurching in torn, grey rags flickered by.

The evergreen tree in the middle of the plaza had grown since she last saw it; its upper branches had escaped the decaying Christmas ornaments and pakz wrappers that festooned the tree. A soft glow emanated from under layers of branches and strings of miniature Santas and snowmen that were missing limbs and heads. A life-size Mrs. Claus winked from an empty eye socket. She was clad in fishnet stockings and a metal bustier. A cat o’ nine tails dangled from her upraised hand. An elf dressed in a gimp outfit knelt at her feet.

A gold lamé brassiere with green tassels was strung across Rudolph’s antlers. On Rudolph’s back was a naked elf, holding reins of barbed wire.

“This is sick,” Chris whispered. Nicholle smiled, noting they had updated Rudolph’s bra. The prostitutes had raided their underwear drawers to help decorate the scene for opening night, or so the story went.

Another gate blocked the entrance to Weisman’s, manned by five guards. This was it, where they would either be shot or welcomed inside. Tightness swirled in her chest. She finally remembered the guard’s name. Mozee. Short, built, with sloping shoulders and a downturned mouth to match. Zee for short. The Chinese had stepped up trade with Africa, and joint offspring often found their way to the States. Many of the gang members were mixed and called themselves Maros.

Three of the guards approached, guns bent sinister. She put her hand on Chris’s knee to help calm him and reassure herself. Zee stood by the driver’s side. A sec-drone flew inside and scanned them, then flew out and flashed an image for the guard. The bank versos blinked, along with their names and pictures.

“I don’t believe it,” Zee said, in a Kenyan lilt.

He bent down to look in the car. “You got
kobbads
of brass, Nicholle, comin’ up in here. You expect to jes walk in and see Tuma?”

“I just want to talk, Zee. That’s all. I brought something for him. Something he’ll want.”

“What?”

“Couple of bill.”

“You think he need money?”

“What about you?”

“I got a tib on the side.”

“You know what he wants, Zee. And I can offer that.” On conditions that Zee didn’t have to know about. “You want Tuma to know he could’ve had it but lost it because of you?”

Zee reached through the window, past Chris, and grabbed Nicholle by the shoulders. She screamed and lurched back.

“You think you can tell me what Tuma want? Bitch!”

He tried to pull her through the opening, but she latched onto the steering wheel and wedged her knees against it.

“Stop!” Chris said. He bit Zee’s arm. Zee yelled, letting go of Nicholle. He punched Chris in the face. Zee opened the door and yanked her out. She fell onto the ground and looked up at him towering over her, gun drawn and pointed at her head.

She tapped her finger and whispered, “Call Tuma.” He had probably blocked her calls, as she had his, but it was worth a try. Maybe he still had feelings for her. Or the desire for legitimacy.
Maybe.

Zee grabbed her up and threw her on the hood of the car. Shards of pain radiated up her spine and down her legs. She opened her mouth, but only managed a raw gurgle.

“Don’t you touch her!” Chris said, trying to scramble out of the car.

A ringing echoed in her head, but she didn’t know whether it was a cog or the pain. A hand clutched her hair and dragged her off the hood and across the ground, scraping off the skin on her arm. She reached up and grabbed the hand. It brought her up, face to face with Zee.

“First I’m going to beat you, then I’m going to shoot you.” He trained a gun on her face. The other guards held Chris at bay. Blood trickled out his nose and over his lips. All he had done was try to protect her, and he was being punished for it. She regretted having brought him into the whole sorry mess.

“Nicholle.”

Tuma. He had picked up.

“Tuma. I’m outside with Zee. There’s a slight misunderstanding. He says he wants to kill me. Now I think that would be a tragic loss. Don’t you?”

“Liar! You’re not talking to Tuma,” Zee said.

“Well, I think you should wait to find out before making an irreversible decision,” Nicholle said.

Zee hesitated, snarling. His teeth shone white behind his snarl, a slice of dazzling brilliance.

Tuma chuckled in her ear. “Yes, a slight misunderstanding. So after all this time, what brings you here?”

“Get Zee off me and I’ll help you.”

“Help me? What makes you think you can help me? And what do you want in return?”

“Look, Tu. Just give me ten minutes’ face time. That’s all. If you don’t like what I’m saying, I’ll be on my way.”

“You walked out on me, Nick.”

Nicholle bit her lip. “Let me explain in person.”

“Five minutes.”

The call ended. The gate started to open, which seemed to surprise the guards.

“Let her through,” Tuma’s voice announced on an old intercom. Zee’s eyes narrowed. He snarled one last time and released his grip on her.

“Been a pleasure, Zee. Like old times,” Nicholle said. She untangled herself from Zee and got in the car.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wondering if her prayer had made it up through the chaos. They drove through the gate and parked in front of Weisman’s. She gave Chris a guided tour to help keep her anxiety at bay.

“Drugs are in the basement, gambling on the first floor. Tuma’s apartment and…other stuff is on the third. I’m going to tell him you can write skeemz. Know anything about that?”