Nylon Angel Page 2

  Minoj's greasy skin shone with angelic intensity; his grin was lecherous and rotting.

  "Little thing"—he knew how I hated that—"waiting always improves your mien. Come in and play with the toys."

  "You know if you weren't such a smart—" I began. "What's that?"

  I stepped across the room and draped myself over his workbench to eyeball a gleaming spear.

  "Special order, little thing. Ne touchez pas."

  I could barely breathe with envy at its sleek-lined sophistication.

  Minoj raised a slicked, knowing eyebrow. "But what would you be needing?"

  Ignoring him, I caressed its texture. "How much for this beauty?"

  "More than your simple lifetime could afford. The latest in explosive tips." He sucked on his teeth, giving a weirdly excited whistle.

  "It's for the Cabal Coomera, isn't it?" I said flatly.

  "My perfect lips are sealed."

  "Your perfect lips are as rotten as your teeth, Minoj."

  "Ha, ha, Parrish." Minoj laughed like his gums—flappy and raw.

  The ritual over, our banter shifted to serious haggling. I left with an ugly snub-nosed pistol and an upgrade for my hacker's "dream" pack. Bodyguards had to stay wired to the tek thing as well.

  Cruising back along the same route, I lingered at Pharmaceuticals and Pleasure—P&P—checking out the latest erotic prolong syrups and sprays. The vendor offered me a free trial out the back, and I laughed in his lascivious face.

  It was about then that I sniffed the tail.

  It smelt of Jamon's boys. The 'goboys lived in a converted barracks arrangement like the old-styled armies, out the back of Torley's. The scent splintered through my brain like a migraine. Semen on ferrocrete. The 'goboy was imitating a punter by gawking at a nearby porn booth.

  Jamon was having me followed again!

  Gripped by panic, I ran, not stopping until I hit the tollbooths on the Pomme. Then I slung inside the first train headed north.

  * * * *

  I didn't have much time to mull over why Jamon had a tail on me because Mei was waiting outside my room when I got back.

  The suit itched and the cobweb of my string bit like second-rate bondage. I hauled Mei inside with me and sat her on my bed while I stripped, shoved my whole suit into the dry clean, and stepped into the san unit. By the time I'd cleaned up the outfit would be ready to go.

  Aah, modern conveniences!

  "What gives, Mei?"

  The pink-haired shaman's face colored with excitement. "That guy, Dark, I've seen him!"

  "How much?" Damn! I was running out of time. Jamon would have the troops out after me if I was late. In a way he already did. But this opportunity was too good to miss. Maybe things would work for me this time. "Hurry, Mei. I got a job with Jamon."

  "I need to meditate. Can I stay here for a while?"

  I sent her a sharp look as the san unit blew me dry. What was the thing with my room? One tiny, overpriced firetrap of a back room on the top story of a run-down villa. It used to have a view into the identical room of the next villa but the window had been permanently sealed. No one in The Tert wanted to look in on their neighbors.

  I knew decent digs were premium around here, but hell…

  "OK, I guess. Don't touch anything."

  My meager savings were somewhere she'd never find them and if she wanted to frolic in my underwear then good luck to her—most of it bit back.

  "He's in one of Hein's sluice rooms."

  I wrinkled my nose. Hein's sluice rooms were for those that preferred to do it by themselves with the help of inanimate objects. "One of those?"

  She rolled her slanted eyes upward.

  "How will I know him?"

  "Very broad. No hair. Leather. Oh yeah, and a prosthesis."

  "Where?"

  She giggled. "It's all right. It's his hand."

  * * * *

  I sprawled near the south end of the bar in Hein's, with a clear view to the corridor and the back rooms. The proprietor, Larry Hein, never spared me a flutter of his false eyelashes, but he gave me my drinks cheap 'cos Jamon was his boss too. He ran the keenest, toughest bar in Torley's. I had a lot of respect for Larry Hein and I sure envied his dress sense. The sorta guy who could make chiffon hip.

  Torley's referred to Hein's and a multitude of bars, plus Shadoville and the whole strip of business that ran the north end of the villa sprawl. Jamon's patch. A lucrative but seedy spread that attracted plenty of Vivacity punters looking for a piece of action.

  I was wearing my action. I patted my pins and felt for the garrotting filament I had concealed down the lengths of my web. Minoj's pistol lay holstered on my waistband, barely disguised by my coat. I'd have to surrender it when I got to Jamon's but for now it felt good. Minoj said it was a Glock, but I had a suspicion he had a cheap manufacturing deal with an Indo business cartel.

  If it shot straight I didn't really care if it was a Barbie.

  I was on my second drink and getting edgy when a bald guy in black leather and a chain choker, fitting Mei's description, filled the corridor. His bulk was pretty impressive, even to me, his face clean-lined and attractive, but his expression was mild. He surveyed Hein's crowd for a vacant tactile, walked over to it and slumped down in front of the large vid screen.

  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 is devastated to inform all those viewers on the public viewing net of the brutal and cowardly slaying today of their beloved news anchorwoman, Razz Retribution.

  "Razz Retribution was rumored to be investigating reports of illegal genetic experimentation, when her car exploded on Hi-way 1049. Two men were cammed by Hiway security fleeing from the site. If you have seen these men please contact your Militia buddy with the information.

  "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 recognized the attack as a bounty hunter by the weapon, even before I spotted the creature. Ordinary humans couldn't handle the heat of their fire-stormers.

  Hein's exploded in a melee 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.

  Sweet!

  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 Shimmer 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 reall
y." 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 adrenaline 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."

  Girlie!

  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!"

  Chapter Three

  "But 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 run-down 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 odor. 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 judgment.

  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.

  Rumors 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 favorite 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 harbored 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. Rumor 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 saw a slight difference in the color of the meat. Lang, Tedder, Mueno and Jamon's were an opaque, clean white. Stellar's and mine were a perceptibly darker, almost gray, color. If it hadn't been seafood I probably wouldn't have even noticed, but everyone eyeballs their seafood these days. Nobody, even the nutte
rs, 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 dishonor… 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.