Nightside CIty (11 page)

Not that that would work. Even if the
tourists were bothered by the squatters, which I doubted they would
be, there were always roofports.

I couldn’t see anything, land or buildings or
people or anything, that was really worth the ride out from the
Trap, let alone a hundred megacredits.

The West End was just what I had thought it
was, a dead end. I wasn’t learning a damn thing worth learning. I
strolled down Wall for a few final minutes, looking for some clue,
but when I kept my eyes on the streets instead of the sky all I saw
was dirt and shadows and that stupid spy-eye following me.

I called a cab. It took a good ten minutes
for a sleek new Hyundai, a Q.Q.T. unit, to come and take me
home.

And that blasted glitching bug-ridden
floating eye was there every centimeter of the way, following the
cab, and me, right back to my doorstep.

At least it didn’t say anything.

Back at my office and out of better ideas for the
moment, I tried the obvious, and discovered that Sayuri Nakada was
not taking calls.

First I tried a direct human-to-human signal,
on a non-business code, and said it was a personal call for Nakada.
I got some chekist software that practically wanted my goddamn gene
pattern before it would even tell me whether I had touched the
right keys.

I answered its questions, and I tried very
hard to be polite about it, and eventually it told me that yes, I
had touched the right keys, but Mis’ Nakada did not talk to
strangers.

Then I tried it clever, calling a different
number at the house, a general service one, and trying to convince
the software that answered that I needed to talk to a human about a
real estate deal. It told me to leave a name and number and the
details of the transaction, and it would consult someone human— but
only when I was off-line.

I wasn’t about to give a name or number on
that, since I had on the other line; I didn’t want to make it
obvious what I was doing. I’d blocked the standard call origination
signal and re-routed my call so it registered as being made
anonymously from a public com, so the software couldn’t just see
for itself who was calling.

Instead of leaving a name, I asked if I could
call back, and it got huffy on me and I exited the call.

Then I tried the honest approach, just to see
what would happen; I called the household’s main business number
and said, “My name’s Carlisle Hsing, and I have a personal message
for Mis’ Sayuri Nakada in regard to recent land purchases. Could I
speak to her, please?”

This software was polite when it turned me
down, anyway.

“Could you tell her I called, please?” I
asked, playing it as humble as I could without gagging. “And
mention specifically that it’s in regard to West End real
estate?”

“I’ll see that Mis’ Nakada is informed, Mis’
Hsing,” it said. Before I could decide whether I wanted to say
anything more, it exited.

I stared at the desk for a minute and then
said the hell with it, at least for the moment. I didn’t have any
more simple, legal approaches to try over the com, and I wasn’t
ready to try anything illegal with someone like Nakada—my life was
rough enough already. I decided to just wait and see what
happened.

For one thing, a look at the status readout
told me it was after 23:00, and I was keeping worker’s hours at
that point; I’d been awake since 6:30. I needed my rest.

For another, I had all those recordings I’d
made out in the West End waiting for analysis, and that would take
a while.
I
hadn’t seen anything worth a buck, but in theory
I might have missed something the recorders caught.

I took the com out of interactive, to make it
a bit harder for anyone to watch what I was doing, and then I
loaded the data in, told the com I wanted anything anomalous,
valuable, or presenting significant commercial potential, and I let
it run.

With that running it was time for a little
user downtime. The shielding was still up on the window, and I left
it that way when I pulled out my bed, plugged in for the night, and
went to sleep, with the program set for no compression. I figured
my body could use the rest, and I wasn’t in any hurry to get
through my dreaming. Besides the necessary stuff, I had some very
pleasant dreams lined up featuring someone I lived with when I was
about twenty—in real life he turned out to be a jerk and we broke
up, but I liked dreaming about him the way I’d thought he was when
we first got together. I’ve had twenty years of learning better,
but at the time I still believed in true love, and it makes for
pretty dreams.

I didn’t bother checking for the eye; I knew
it was still out there. If you want the truth, in a way it was
almost comforting, knowing that it was watching over me. Nobody
else was anymore.

About 7:00 I got a buzz and rolled out; the
message code was flashing. I didn’t even bother with any damn keys,
I just called over my downtime wire for a playback. I plugged in
when I slept mostly for the sake of the dreams, but the wire was
hooked into the main system all the same, just in case of
emergency.

“Carlisle Hsing,” the message said, in what
didn’t even pretend to be a human voice, “Mis’ Sayuri Nakada is not
interested in anything you might have to say, on any subject. She
does not deal with losers. You made three calls, to three different
codes; call any of those again, or any other com access in this
household, and you will be charged with harassment. If further
clarification is needed, you may contact, once and once only, the
customer affairs program of the New York Games Corporation.”

That wasn’t a damn bit of help. It was a safe
bet that my IRC file had been checked, going by that line about
losers, but I didn’t even know if Nakada had been consulted;
software can take a hell of a lot on itself if a user isn’t
careful. I had that call to the New York I could make, but I
decided to hold off; I might need it later. Except for that narrow
crack, it seemed I was at another dead end.

That reminded me of my little stroll out by
the crater wall. I got up and unplugged and got myself a cup of
tea, and took it over to my desk, where I punched for the results
on the West End data.

Nothing. No anomalies, no commercial
potential, nothing of value at all. Everything I saw there was just
what it was supposed to be, a lot of decaying, abandoned real
estate no good to anybody once the sun came over the crater rim. If
anything was hidden there, it was hidden very well indeed, and
shielded, as well.

The thought of shielding reminded me of my
faithful companion; I cleared the window and looked out.

The spy-eye was still hanging there, blocking
half my view of the Trap’s glitter. A couple of advertisers were
buzzing around it, trying to feed their pitches to anyone who might
be monitoring, but it seemed to be doing a good job of ignoring
them. It was also ignoring the wind, and the traffic on the street
below, and just about everything else. When it saw the window
change its main lens swiveled up from the door to my face, but
other than that it didn’t move a millimeter. I waved hello, then
blacked the window again.

I hoped the poor thing wasn’t capable of
boredom. Since it said it had no free will, I figured it probably
wasn’t.

I went back to thinking about the case.

I’d had three approaches, and two of them
were blocked, at least temporarily—or rather, learning anything
from Nakada was blocked by all that flapper software. The approach
through the West End wasn’t really blocked, it just didn’t seem to
go anywhere.

That left Paulie Orchid.

I knew he wouldn’t be awake at 7:30, or at
least I thought I knew it, but I punched in his code anyway, and
what the hell, he surprised me. He answered. No software, either—I
got his own face, first beep.

His hair was black and slick and polished,
his eye-sockets neatly squared, and tidy little rows of silver wire
gleamed on his cheekbones. If he’d ever had facial hair he’d had it
removed, and more wires sparkled along the line of his jaw, every
fifth one gold.

I couldn’t say for certain that his nose and
lips weren’t natural, but if they were he’d hit it lucky in the
genetic lottery—assuming he wasn’t tailored, that is, and for all I
know he was, though in that case it’s a mystery how he ever wound
up a small-time operator on Epimetheus.

I’ve got to admit that his appearance caught
my interest. I’d seen him before, but I hadn’t paid much attention,
and besides, he’d changed some—the wire job and hairslick were both
new, and I wasn’t sure about some of the rest. He looked slick now,
very smooth and polished—not just his hair, but his whole manner.
He’d definitely moved upscale—probably not as far as he wanted, or
even as far as he thought he had, since he was obviously still
something of a faddie, but he was several steps above anything in
my neighborhood. You don’t see slicks in Lui’s.

From what I knew of his history I’d have
expected him to wind up in the West End, but he’d clearly been
moving in the opposite direction. I wondered if he’d had the brains
to buy himself a little implant education, or maybe some
personality work.

He smiled at me, showing perfect teeth.

I wanted to gag. He was slick, but something
nasty still showed through. I could see that whatever he wanted me
to believe, he still knew he was bad news. Polished slime is still
slime.

“Yes, mis’, what can I do for you?” he asked,
still showing those teeth.

“Hello, Mis’ Orchid. I’m calling in regard to
Westwall Redevelopment. I was hoping...”

I stopped there, because the smile was gone.
His face was flat and expressionless.

“What were you hoping?” he asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me something
about your plans for the company,” I said.

“I don’t have any. Who are you, anyway? Your
origination isn’t registering.”

That was because I didn’t want it to, of
course; I had a scrambler on line, blocking it, and was re-routing
the call to make doubly sure it didn’t register.

Before I could say anything, though, he said,
“Wait a minute, I know you—you’re Hsing, the detective, right?” The
smile was back, but it wasn’t as friendly this time. A mean streak
was showing. “That was your software that got busted on me
yesterday, right?”

I smiled. He didn’t look quite as smooth any
more.

He looked predatory, instead.
That
I
knew how to deal with.

“Hey, I’m glad I stayed up late,” he said. “I
wouldn’t want to have missed your call.”

“Oh?” I said.

“That’s right, Hsing—Carlie, isn’t it?” I
didn’t answer, and he went on, “Whatever, I’ve got something I
wanted to tell you.”

“Oh?” I said again, “What’s that?”

“To leave me alone. I’m more than you can
handle, lady. Maybe I wasn’t before, but I am now.”

I didn’t believe that, but I didn’t argue,
because I didn’t want him to try and prove anything on me just
then. I just smiled again.

We were smiling all over, weren’t we? And
neither of us meant any of it, not if you consider a smile anything
pleasant.

His smile disappeared.

“Listen,” he said, “I mean it. I don’t want
you anywhere near me or Westwall Redevelopment. You just stay out
of my affairs, or you’re likely to get seriously damaged.” He
paused, looking at me, and added, “At least, stay out of my
business affairs—I won’t say I wouldn’t mind meeting you in person
some time. That won’t get you damaged, just bent.” He leered, and I
blanked the screen. I don’t like leers. I don’t figure I deserve
them; I’m no beauty. I mean, I’m not a hag, either, but I just
don’t see my face as an incitement to lust at first sight. People
don’t leer at me much, not any more. Anyone who leers at me without
provocation is either faking it, has perverse tastes, or has no
discrimination at all. I figured Orchid for the last, and for a
probable case of satyriasis.

After a second’s thought, before he said
anything more, I exited the call entirely.

That was my third dead end. I’d had three
approaches on the case, I’d tried them all, and they’d all
died.

Sometimes when you hit a wall, you back up
and try another route. Other times, you just have to knock a hole
in the wall.

I’d tried the other routes. It was time to
start banging away, looking for somewhere I could knock a hole.

Paulie Orchid was alert and ready for me.
He’d warned me off, and he’d be watching; he wouldn’t really expect
me to lay off. I had a better rep than that—or at least I hoped I
did. That meant that going after him really might be dangerous, and
I wasn’t in any hurry to be damaged.

Besides, I couldn’t believe he was anything
but hired help.

The West End was dead, and poking the bones
wasn’t going to do any good. I just couldn’t see any way to get
anything more there.

That left Sayuri Nakada.

She had real possibilities. Someone with that
much money, that many connections in business and family and
everywhere else, she leaves traces, stirs things up and leaves
ripples I can read. I could see a dozen ways to get at bits and
pieces of her without even trying. If I got enough bits, maybe I
could put together enough to recognize what sort of a program was
running. This business in the West End might not have been her
idea, but she was sure as hell involved somehow, buying up that
property. Even if I couldn’t get at it directly, I could get an
idea as to how her mind worked.

She couldn’t possibly keep everything
private; she’d be a fool to try. I didn’t think she was that
foolish. She’d drawn a line that said strangers couldn’t contact
her personally, but I’d gotten my calls through to intelligent
software easily enough. I’d gotten her address from public
records—tax records, not directory, it’s true, but public records
all the same. There were data.