Nylon Angel (3 page)

Another guy trailed in behind him. Pale, skinny with rusty hair, wearing R. M. Williams, a checked shirt and yaaaahh . . .
moleskins
! Talk about the odd couple! Bung Mei alongside and it could have been a sideshow.

But, hey, who am I to talk in flared nylon and webs!

As I mulled over my approach tactic, the
One-World
news blared on the vid screen. A report about Razz Retribution’s assassination headlining it.

Dark and his friend glued their eyes to it like baby animals imprinting.

The reporting bordered on hysteria.

‘One-World needs
you,
its family, to root out this evil continuing to plague our new era . . .’

A close-up frozen image of Dark’s rusty-haired companion led the segment into the break. He was gaping wildly from the pillion of a bike. The rider a dark, indistinct blur.

Then two things happened at once: the rusty-haired guy heaved his insides up on the floor, and his tactile shrieked in pain - the entire back section of the chair melting away where his head had rested seconds before.

I recognised the attack as a bounty hunter by the weapon, even before I spotted the creature. Ordinary humans couldn’t handle the heat of their firestormers.

Hein’s exploded in a mêlée of bodies as the clientele went to ground. In the confusion that followed I caught a glimpse of Dark propelling his friend along by the neck, protecting him with his larger body.

With a flick he tossed the guy behind Hein’s reinforced bar and rolled his own bulk over.

The bounty hunter had missed the clear shot and vamoosed, but some nervous punters lost their bottle and shots sprayed everywhere. Jamon would be pissed off at the mess.

It’s stupid to feel sorry for a chair, but I kinda did.

I slid along the wall in a half crouch with the Glock-copy balanced ready, and edged for the bar. Dark and the moleskin guy weren’t the only ones hiding there. Two Shrang cultists and a Fishertown Slummer were head to head at one end.

Damn! A religious war, that’s all I needed.

Dark had his back braced against the wall and his feet wedged in under the bar.

‘G’day.’

He turned the same mild stare on me that I’d seen before. His eyes were the darkest brown, nearly black.

‘Not really.’ His voice rang deep and I noticed the perfect shape of his clean skull.

He was right. It was far from a good day.

‘Listen, we need to talk. And I can give you some space. Looks like your friend could lose a little heat?’

Shots zinged off the bunker walls as I held out the back of my hand in greeting.

‘Parrish Plessis.’

For a few seconds the docile look dropped away. He eyed the pistol and my web and my flares. Then he stared intently into my face, like a psy-spook.

As he held out the back of his hand to return my greeting a strange heat burned through me, like swallowing a bucket of caffeine caps on a stinking hot day. Sweat broke over my skin in its wake. The pointy knives of adrenalin running down my backbone switched to hacking great axes.

‘What are you doing to me?’ I demanded.

‘Nothin’.’

A question rose in his eyes but not the same one I was asking. Then the mild look settled back into place. He reached for his friend’s shoulder and turned him over like a parent handling a frightened child.

‘Stolowski. This girlie’s going to help you.’

I shoved the Glock-copy so hard under his jaw that his thick neck jerked back.

‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ I snarled with raw sincerity, ‘don’t
ever
call me that!’

‘
B
ut you said I could meditate!’

‘Come on, Mei. This is my room. Anyway it’s just for a couple of hours.’

The chino-shaman narrowed her almond eyes until they passed for being closed. She was pissed off, I was pissed off, and if I didn’t get my nifty nylon flares moving, Jamon was going to be dangerously pissed off. I could see why she didn’t want company though, and why Dark was shuffling like an oversized teenager.

Mei was naked except for a swathe of pink goo pasted on her hair and a nail tattooing kit open in her hand. Girls’ stuff!

Behind Dark, the red-haired, moleskin-clad Stolowski perked up like a dog about to score a biscuit.

‘Get your gear on, Mei, and be nice to the company or I’ll throw you out as you are,’ I said.

She opened her eyes, fractionally, and saw that I meant it. With an exaggerated sigh she disappeared inside, her bare butt dimpling like tapioca.

I shoved Dark after her. He seemed mighty embarrassed for a Goliath in black leather and chains. Red-haired Sto didn’t need anywhere like the encouragement. His nose was practically twitching.

‘I’ve got to work, but I’ll be back after midnight, then we’ll talk,’ I told Dark. ‘Don’t go anywhere and you’ll be safe. If you get hungry, Mei will dial in something for you.’

I grinned to myself all the way to Jamon’s. Somehow I didn’t think Dark would have much of an appetite.

 

Jamon’s gleaming mahogany table was set with silver service when I got there, ludicrous amongst the chipped plaster walls and dirty low archways. It should have been in a mansion somewhere in Vivacity, where the ceilings reached over ten feet and the guard dogs passed for bears. Instead it crouched uncertainly in Jamon’s villa, covered in white napkins and a deluge of candles. One of his many affectations - Gothic meets tacky plastic.

Not that I don’t like nice things! But I call it like I see it. No matter who Jamon thought he was, he lived in a rundown warren of villas built on poisonous earth. A real French-polished table didn’t change it.

Then again, maybe I was jealous?

Four guests clustered at the other end of the room emanating the stench of shared chemicals. I heaped confidence into my step and strode toward them. As the faces turned, though, I almost lost it in surprise.

Jamon had two of his bitterest enemies in one room. A small one at that.
And where were their bodyguards?
I wondered.

‘My dear, you are late.’ Jamon had his snake smile on, the one that made me nauseous. ‘Stellar you know, of course.’

He slid his hand in underneath my coat between my shoulder blades, his fingernails stabbing into my skin.

I stared venomously across at a blue-haired bimbo.
Stellar the bodyshop bitch! Jamon’s boy/girl.

‘Let me introduce you to the others,’ he continued. ‘Topaz Mueno.’

Mueno, The Slag’s main mover, bowed slightly and combed his plump fingers through his thigh-length hair. Tiny lights glimmered between its silken strands, like a Christmas tree. Heavy perfumes masked his body odour. Another soft, sweaty man. And vain. I summed him in that moment. Sometimes you can pick people’s weaknesses in that first instance of meeting - before acquaintance tarnishes your judgement.

The Slag lay in the western quarter of The Tert, Plastique to the south, and Torley’s on the north side. The Slag’s western boundary was the poisonous Filder river where mud and garbage piled along the banks - someone’s poor attempt to stay the inevitable landslides. Heavy metal slag.

‘Road Tedder.’

Tedder I knew better. He wrangled constantly with Doll Feast for control of Plastique’s lucrative businesses, the bodyshops, hardware and tek. His deviousness drove Doll to distraction. She had him watched twenty-four hours of the day and still he kept his advantage - and his secrets.

Rumours say he murdered his first wife and ate her. Good hunting rule, I guess - eat what you kill.

Tedder lived in the ’burbs back then.

My favourite arms dealer, Raul Minoj, ran the knife edge between Doll and Tedder, though I suspected at times he hung more heavily over to Road’s side.

‘And of course . . . Io Lang.’

An unremarkable looking man offered his hand in greeting. It was cold and I caught a whiff of something . . . astringent, like antiseptic.

‘Just “Lang”,’ he corrected pleasantly.

A huge spice worm of fear bucked in my gut. This man I only knew by reputation.

Lang ran the dirty heart of The Tert, a place called Dis - some said Dis harboured the root of all The Tert’s industries, but I couldn’t see it myself. No transport went that far in. No people ever came out. If you really needed to hide from the Militia it was the place to go, even if they dropped a bomb and flattened The Tert to get at you. Rumour had it that Dis went far enough underground to hit lava; or hell; whichever came first. The real crazies lived there, self-sufficient and secluded, a world within
our
world.

‘And now, let’s be seated for dinner.’

Let’s be seated??
Jamon really was trying to impress! In fact he seemed unusually excited about something.

‘Parrish, you will attend Lang. Stellar . . . Señor Mueno.’ He seated himself alongside Road Tedder.

Even sitting, I towered over Io Lang. If I hadn’t been so jumpy, I would have been embarrassed that I looked like his mother. I studied his appearance while Mikey, the Pet, served our meal.

Lang’s brown hair was cut up over his ears and above his collar, military style. His milky skin made it difficult to place his age. A strange smile played along his lips. Not exactly pasted on, but not connected with the rest of him.

Only once during the tedium of the dinner did he look directly at me. I was thankful that it didn’t happen again. If Mondo looked like a snake, then Lang reminded me of the worst predator of all . . . soulless Man.

To make matters worse Stellar, the bodyshop bitch, hung over Mueno like fake cologne. Mueno lapped up the attention, complimenting Jamon on his hospitality, while Stellar flashed her
I’m better than you bitch
look at me.

A month ago I would have risen to the bait like a starving street kid. Now I just wanted out.

For the most part I kept my head down and listened to the tone of conversation - their words were carefully guarded. Instinct told me Lang was the dealer and Jamon and the others were buying. But buying what? Something valuable enough to get the four of them in one room.

When Mikey served the main course of cuttlefish I noticed a slight difference in the colour of the meat. Lang, Tedder, Mueno and Jamon’s were an opaque, clean white. Stellar’s and mine were a perceptibly darker, almost grey, colour. If it hadn’t been seafood I probably wouldn’t have even noticed, but everyone eyeballs their seafood these days. Nobody, even the nutters, ate stuff caught in the Filder or off Fishertown. It meant sure death.

I glanced at Mikey but his robotic features gave nothing away. Nor did his darting human eyes.

‘I presume the swordfish is imported?’ Road Tedder asked.

Lang and Mueno stared at Jamon.

‘Of course,’ Mondo replied hastily.

‘Then you won’t mind if I test it, Jamon.’

‘Actually, I do mind, Road. You insult me in my own home. Surely even you have better manners?’

The room suddenly stilled.

Only the shadows cast by the candlelight moved. I loosened my grip on the base of my glass so I could get my garrotting wire in a hurry. The ’goboys had taken my pistol.

Tedder reached with a slow teasing movement into his breast pocket. To my right I could smell the perfumed sweat on Mueno’s soft body. Stellar’s as well - hers was pure chemical.

‘Understand that my
manners
have kept me alive, Jamon. I don’t doubt your intentions. But tell me, did you prepare this meal yourself?’

With a flourish Tedder produced an object from his pocket that sent me grabbing for my wire. Mueno and Jamon betrayed similar spasms. Only Lang seemed unconcerned.

Sniggering, Tedder dipped the object into his meal. A toxin detector.

I relaxed my fingers.

‘In my place you’d do the same. Or are your good manners more important to you than
la morte vite
?’ he asked.

Satisfied with the detector’s advice he waved it across Stellar’s plate and gave her a wink of assurance. Then he offered it to Lang and Mueno in turn. Mueno accepted and repeated the process.

‘Lang?’

‘Death before dishonour . . . isn’t that the expression, Road? No, thank you. I trust Jamon.’

Jamon’s expression lightened at Lang’s vote of confidence.

Lang was playing games, though. I’d caught the faint hum of his inbuilt detector, probably in his fingernail. He already knew his meal was within the safety limits of mercury contamination.

‘What is the world coming to?’ Stellar brayed to break the tension and then gulped down a large mouthful. Under the weight of her giggling inanities the moment passed.

As I sliced the offending fish and brought it to my lips, Lang looked directly at me for the second time that evening.

‘Tedder lied about Stellar’s food,’ he whispered. ‘My detector tells me that yours and hers are not the same batch as mine.’

The fork clattered from my hand.

Sensing Jamon straining to catch our conversation, I forced myself to pick it up and smile back.

As Jamon turned back to Mueno and Stellar, I dropped the sliced fish into the palm of my hand and stuffed it into a pocket to test later. From then on I pushed the food around the plate until Mikey came to clear the table.

Stellar had cleaned her plate and was busy licking her lips like a cat. Not just a plastic bitch, a dead one! I couldn’t even feel sorry for her. Just angry. And sick. Sick of being caught in their twisted games.