Shadowboxer (4 page)

Big smegging deal. Okay, IronHell. Kicking back in his battered easy chair, Adam Two Bears tugged on the gold stud in his earlobe as an aid to thought. Not expecting any business calls today, he was in casual attire with only a light armored vest underneath and a legal Narcoject pistol holstered at his hip. Not his best togs, but thankfully, not his worst either. Good thing he’d decided to help Louie fix the public lav tomorrow and not today. Chewing a lip, Two Bears shook his head. “No. Sorry. Don’t know the guy.”

“I expected as much,” grumbled the norm, looking regretful.

“So, do you want me to find the chummer and haul him in?” asked Two Bears. Then he sat upright. “I don’t do wet-work. Not my cuppa.”

The old guy on the telecom accepted that with a Japper bow. “Termination is not necessary or required, my friend. Simply find out who, or
what
it is. And where it is. Then report to me. Any further actions will be based upon your initial report.”

“Price.” Two Bears didn’t phrase it as a question. “Eighty-thousand nuyen. Half now, half upon completion. Satisfactory?”

Mentally, Two Bears whistled. Not bad. “Sounds good, my man. By when?”

“Asap.”

Oh, in a rush, eh? “As-soon-as-possible costs extra, Mr. Johnson.”

There wasn’t a flicker or a pause, as if his caller was expecting a little bargaining. It didn’t matter what the cobbler looked like, Two Bears knew there were VR programs to make a man look like a woman over a telecom, turn an elf into a dwarf, or even a motherfragging dragon into a mermaid. Hard as it was to believe that anybody could be as handsome as a dwarf! And by the way this Johnson was throwing nuyen around, he figured there was probably a corp involved.

“One hundred and twenty then,” said the Mr. Johnson. “But no more.”

Inspecting his fingernails for a tick, Two Bears managed to conceal his elation with a poker face honed by years of pretending his four acres and a bullet were complete drek. One hundred and twenty kay? Oh, momma!

“Accepted,” he said. “Scheduled reports?”

“Call when you have something.” Or don’t report at all, was the implied message. And that was chill with Two Bears. Nothing he hated worse than offering a customer a fistful of nothing.

“How can I get in touch?” he asked.

A number scrolled along the bottom of the telecom screen. “Got that logged?”

That particular circuit was out of order on the old telecom, had been for months, so Two Bears just nodded yes while constantly repeating the number to himself.

“Goodbye then,” said Johnson. “I expect to hear from you soon.”

Looking stoic, Two Bears nodded and bowed formally, and as soon as the screen was clear, he hurriedly jotted the telecom code down in his pocket secretary. Then he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and ruminating. Hmm, IronHell. Could be anything, the name of a ship, the tag of some street samurai, the title of a bookchip, model of a European car—hell, where to start? Hey, amigo, he told himself. The best place is always to start simple.

Pressing a button on his desk, Two Bears heard his words echo over the soft jazz playing for the skaters. “Louie to the office, please. Louie to the office.”

Moments later, an old dwarf poked his lumpy head through the door. His distorted features were more lumpy than even dwarfs thought attractive. With shoulders' like a troll and fists large as anvils, Louie had been a former heavyweight champ until losing four matches in a row via brutal knockouts. Maybe the bouts were fixed, maybe not. Two Bears had never been able to find out one way or the other. So now Louie was retired and sometimes didn’t show for work because he plain forgot where the place was. Two Bears tolerated such lapses from Blue Lou the Miami Mauler even though he wasn’t a relative, because the guy was such a hard worker when he eventually got here. Besides, the kids loved to hear his tales of the ring. Most of them true.

“Somet’ing wrong, boss?” mumbled the champ. He didn’t appear frightened or nervous. Just curious.

A smile. “Nah, nothing like that, Lou. Just a question.”

“Sure, Mr. Two Bears. What?”

“You ever hear of something, or some guy, named IronHell?”

Rheumy eyes blinked in confusion, old synapses firing wildly to access biological data banks battered and abused. “That da southpaw from Hialeah?”

Two Bears forces a cough to hide his laugh. “Don’t think it’s a boxer, killer.”

Grimacing from the effort, Louie’s face brightened. “Oh, yeah. I scan it now. Dat’s a secret pirate base ’n da Caribbean! My gramma useta tell us stories about it.”

Oh, for the love of drek. The old guy was off on another magical mystery tour again. Pirates were the bane of Miami’s existence, preying on both tourist and merchant craft. But what would Louie, much less his grandmother, know about them? “Great! Thanks, Louie. Go grab a soykaf and take ten.”

“Tanks, boss!” he gushed and closed the door.

Pirates? Gimmeabreak. Two Bears shook his head as he wracked his brains. Where to try next? Bad Billie? Nah, the mage was out of town on family biz. Some tragedy in what was left of Chicago. And Dogface was on a run until further notice. Maybe Blackjack. The norm owed him a favor or three. He punched the runner’s code into the telecom, but all he got was a recorded message that Blackjack was gone fishing and would return in a few days. So, he was on a run, too, eh? Local biz was booming.

Blast, who else then? Unfortunately, nobody came to mind. The only other thing he could think of was a long shot. But what the frag, he had to start somewhere, didn’t he? He tapped in a code and the screensaver changed to a view of a sick-looking norm wearing a stiff suit, ridiculous pince nez glasses from before the Before balanced on the end of his nose, and the haggard expression worn by all city employees. It was probably issued weekly along with their measly stipend and crappy parking spots.

“Public library,” sniffed the norm, forcing a polite smile. He applied a handkerchief to his nose and did a good imitation of an elephant. “How may I help you?” he continued, stuffing the nasal rag into his pocket.

The sight was disgusting, but Two Bears stayed chill. “O-hio, sir. Sorry to see you’re under the weather. I’m trying to track down a mention of the name, or place, don’t know which for sure. ... IronHell?”

A quizzical expression. “From
Dante’s Inferno
?"

“Dunno, chummer. You tell me.”

The librarian gave a silent sigh and started typing on a keyboard off screen. “Checking, sir. Just a moment, please, sir.” It took longer than a few moments, and the results were all negative. Apparently the word couldn’t be found in something called Don Tay’s Inferno or any other famous books involving hell.

“Metallurgy?” guessed Two Bears, taking a shot in the wild dark.

Blinking and sniffling, the librarian accepted the odious task. “Certainly, sir.” After another longer wait, the clerk returned with equal negative results. Nothing in basic metallurgy, history of, modern advances in, biographies of people involved in,
Mrs
.
Brown’s Dictionary of Industrial Scientific Slang
—contemporary and antiquarian editions.

There was such a thing? Two Bears made a mental note to get a copy of the chip. Might be handy in dealing with corps to parlay in their own lingo.

“Can I be of any further help?” sniffled the man wearily.

If you’d been of help, then I’d be gone, hoophead. “Yes, please. Would you be so kind as to transfer me to the reference department?”

A cough and a sneeze. “Certainly, sir. Just a moment please.”

“Reference department, Ms. Sour speaking.”

Two Bears perked up at her appearance. The image shown was anything but sour, and he leered at the tasty lady dwarf displayed on his telecom screen. A little gray at the temples meant nothing with sparkling eyes like those. Bodies got old, but never the eyes. Faintly, she reminded him of Melinda, and that thought cooled his ardor instantly.

“
Buenos di'as senorita
,” he said, trying to please. “I am seeking any data on the word, name, or phrase IronHell. Can you assist me, please?”

“Certainly,” she replied warmly, smiling shyly in return. “One moment.” She too put him on hold, but was back almost immediately.

“Sorry, sir,” she reported. “I tried a global search on the library master grid, the public net, and worldwide Matrix, even used the 9.5 Hunter program, but can find no mention of the word anywhere. I do apologize.”

He chewed that over for a tick. Hey, if it was easy, then the Johnson wouldn’t have hired him in the first place.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

Unable to come up with another suggestion, Two Bears thanked her profusely to earn a few brownie points for when he asked her out later, then killed the telecom.

Blast. No go, not on the public net, at least. The private grids, of course, might be a totally different story. But that meant he was going to have to use his street sources, which would cut his monstrous profit margin to merely tremendous, but that was his cross to bear.

A flurry of movement on the other side of the office window caught his attention, and Two Bears swiveled about in his chair just in time to watch Louie teach a fine-wire expert that picking pockets in The Crypt was a mother-fragging bad idea. It was over and done with in ticks, and the skating continued unabated over the red spot on the ice with only minor slippage.

Back to biz. IronHell, what could it be? Might be the street name of a professional merc, or maybe even that of a Mafia or yakuza hitman. That he would never trace, unless he could by some miracle find a decker who could get past the lethal black IC protecting the datastores of either Lone Star or Atlantic Security. Between them they handled all the municipal and corporate security in the sprawl.

This was going to be a tough run. He was going to need someone laser-hot. Twist from Seattle—no, he didn’t deck anymore for some reason. Maybe Shadowman, Leo the Lizard, or, no, that new kid, Sister Wizard from Orlando. For a newbie, the elf had quite a solid rep in the shadows. She also cost more than god on overtime. His profit was getting slashed like a loanshark’s throat. Drek.

The decision made, Two Bears locked his desk, paused to grab a hat, sighed, rammed the hat on his head and headed for the exit. ’Kay, he’d track down Sister Wiz and see what the private grids might have to say about IronHell. Two Bears knew he couldn’t use the office telecom. Too risky. Better to make the call from a mall, or on the streets. Stay mobile. Much more difficult to trace him, just in case anyone wanted to try. A distinct possibility since somebody was always after somebody’s hoop in this rocking burg. Blood feuds seemed more popular than Urban Brawl. Hey, welcome to Blue City, chummer, please try not to bleed on the carpet as we steal your teeth.

* * *

Thumbs stepped off the rattletrap Miami gov bus and stood on the cracked sidewalk of SW Fourteenth Street, the sizzling sun baking down on the top of his tattooed bald head. The sounds and smells of home turf enveloped him like a soothing balm. Sixty back-breaking days in the dank hell of the Fort Lauderdale Citadel making one big one out of little ones for Resisting Arrest made an inner-city troll long for the hot open streets again. It was fragging wonderful to be back. Right where he belonged, on Slammer turf.

At the corner, a stoplight loudly changed, and a trio of bikini-clad blonde bikers frantically peddled through the honking traffic, all trying to reach the ocean alive. A remote-controlled truck rumbled by with no driver or markings. It didn’t need one since trucks like these usually carried machine parts or tox chems for dumping into the swamps up north. Could be anything. Two orks, probably a married couple, were screaming at each other in some foreign language. Wafting steam carried the overly spicy aroma of soydog from a cart operated by a blind norm, her snarling hellhound keeping away fast fingers and fake credsticks at the same time. Sunlight glittered off the ancient three brass balls of a pawnshop that dealt in everything and anything that could fit through the black steel doorway. Resting against the rough louvered trunk of a palm tree, a leggy slot-machine girl in a stained white sailor suit yawned widely, trying to stay awake at the ungodly hour of noon. A snoring Japper toff—in a fragging tuxedo of all things!—was lying atop the rusted wreck of a wheelless Jackrabbit in the middle of a weed-filled lot. The drunk was getting expertly stripped by a bunch of troll kids, while amused passersby stopped to make wagers on whether he’d wake up before they finished the job. Odds were running six to two in favor.

Pausing to buy a dog with the works and wolf it down, Thumbs chuckled at the sight. They’d get no real money for the clothing, but it was good practice for them. Best schooling a young troll could get these days. This was his third stop on the way to his doss in Riverside. The first had been to recover some credsticks stashed moments before the Lone Stars nabbed him. Wonder of wonders, the sticks were still there waiting for him. Next had been to turn the stolen nuyen into untraceable Carib League dollars and there too he encountered good fortune.

Now Thumbs was prowling the main drag of Overtown, checking the scene and looking for any chummer who might want a bit of R&R with the happy pack in his vest pocket. The drug/chip combo, which tripled the simsense experience of Better Than Life chips but didn’t burn out your brain like 2XS, was a real find—too good to sell since Thumbs was flash at the moment. And the original elf owner wasn’t in any condition to complain. The nullhead organleggers had sliced and bagged all the good vitals from the corporate pixie, but not gone through his pockets. Incredibly stupid. Staggeringly dumb. No, this special treat was being saved purely for the family of his go-gang. But if Thumbs didn’t locate some warm bodies soon, it was going to be just him and the lovely ladies in his head for the rest of the day. Not a bad proposition, at that. Thumbs had a secret taste for the group thing.