Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 (15 page)

When I finished the Percival story, I went through the remainder of the newspaper, finding nothing particularly worth reading. I reached the back end and the personal ads.

Maybe there was another message to find. I glanced around and turn to see the Men Seeking Men section. Scanning quickly, I ran my finger down the columns of

anonymous messages. There didn’t seem to be any entries like the one I’d found yesterday.

“Oh, my God.”

My head snapped up, and I whipped my head round to see Rook leaning over my

shoulder. He walked off and sat down, two bar stools to my right, shaking his head. I closed the newspaper. “It’s not what you think.”

Rook gave me the eye. “Really?”

“Yeah. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”

Rook leaned forward and peered at me over his glasses. “Murphy, I couldn’t care less about whatever lifestyle you choose to practice. But stooping to the use of personal advertising, why it’s despicable.”

If I’d really cared what Rook thought, maybe I would’ve taken the time to explain the situation, but I didn’t feel like letting the dried-up little bastard ruin my sunny mood. I folded the newspaper under my arm and stood up. Rook looked up at me. “Found a hot one, did we? Better run back to the office and make a call. True love is so hard to find these days.”

Louie stepped back behind the bar. “You hassling Murph again, Rook?”

Rook gestured toward me. “Lord, No. I’m sharing in his good fortune. It seems he’s just a phone call away from meeting Mr Right.”

Louie gave me a confused look. I just shook my head. “It’s a long story, Louie. I’ll tell you about it later. Thanks for breakfast.”

I walked to the door and stepped outside. With the nicer weather, the neighbourhood was busier than it had been for days. I walked back to my office, waved to Chelsee, and climbed the fire escape. At the top, I sat down and unfolded the newspaper, then turned to the personals and went through them.

There were a number of hideously intriguing entries, but none related to the matter at hand. I turned to the entertainment section and lit a cigarette. It was nice to be outside in the warm weather. I read several articles then came across the movie listing. The Bijou was showing a double feature of The Big Sleep and The Maltese Falcon. It didn’t get any better than that, and I had most of a day to kill before my appointment at the Land Mine.

I checked my watch; I could see the twin bill and still have time to swing by LPE before five. If Percival wasn’t there, I’d make an appointment with Alaynah. I walked to my speeder and waved at Chelsee as I climbed inside. Then I lifted off and headed downtown.

There weren’t many theatres still in business, and most of them were porno dives. The decline in popularity was due to a lot of factors. Going out at night had gotten to be a dangerous proposition, and pay-per-view allowed people to order new releases and watch them without having to leave the safety of their homes. Interactive movies were more popular with younger viewers than plain old motion pictures. And Hollywood had been taken over by businessmen who wouldn’t know a good script from a takeout menu. Theatres had been forced to raise their ticket prices to compensate for smaller audiences, and that just worsened the situation.

As far as I was concerned, technology couldn’t touch the old-fashioned movie-going experience. I spent most of the afternoon sprawled in a rickety theatre seat, wondering why no one made great movies any more. True film noir had disappeared about the same time as the American Dream, and the world was an emptier place without it. Oh sure, film-makers had tried to recapture the look, but there was always something missing.

Bogart, maybe. He was the man.

As I sat in the dark, nearly empty movie house, watching the two best detective flicks ever made, I felt a sense of destiny that had been missing from my life for a long time. I remembered why I’d gone into the PI business. Most everyone I’d grown up and gone to school with had gone into some computer-related field. I’d heard somewhere that 70 per cent of the US workforce was now in the PC or online business. What had started out as an intriguing convenience had become Big Brother. Now everyone’s existence was reduced to zeros and ones, documented and stored on the internet. I watched Bogart light a cigarette and longed for simpler times.

Like movie theatres, old-fashioned gumshoes were a vanishing breed. The computer boom had created a new type of P I: the Web detective. They did a lot of the same things I did, only they did it from a comfortable chair in front of a monitor. But they couldn’t do everything. Knowing how to operate a PC didn’t help when it came to squeezing information out of a reluctant witness. And sometimes the only way to track down a lead was by pounding the pavement or doing an all-night stakeout. It made me happy to think that not everything had changed from 100 years ago.

It was 25 minutes to five when I stepped out of the theatre and waited for my eyes to adjust. I was feeling mentally and spiritually fortified. Louie’s hearty breakfast was still tiding me over nicely, so I’d been able to skip the popcorn. Of course, I was now down to a single $10 bill in my wallet, so I couldn’t have bought popcorn anyway.

I made the quick flight to the Lowell Perceval Enterprises building and managed to catch Alaynah just to she was about to clock out. Our conversation was pleasant, but the lusty magic, at least on my part, had vanished. Alaynah asked if I wanted to get a drink, but I refused stating, honesty that I had a previous engagement. She attempted to play a one-sided game of coquette, but gave up after seeing that I wasn’t interested. With a hint of regret, she said that Percival would be in the office the next day and penciled me in for a 3 o’clock appointment.

As I stepped into my office, the vid-phone beeped. I walked to the desk and answered the call. Mac Malden’s sleepy bulldog face materialized on-screen. He was sipping from a coffee cup, a clear violation of vid-phone courtesy.

“What’s going on, Mac? Got some news?”

He fixed his lethargic gaze on me. “Why else would I call you?”

“So, what did your boys find?”

The cop shook his head. “Nothing. No prints, not one identifiable item. Whoever was there was good at covering their tracks.”

Even with Malden’s gang of monkeys, I hadn’t expected them to find nothing. “Doesn’t that seem a little strange? I mean, not a single fingerprint?”

Mac took a drag of a Merit and shrugged. “Yeah. It’s a little unusual. But there it is.”

Mac set his smoke down and started working his temple with both hands. He looked as though he could use a pick-me-up.

“Looks like you could use a Diet Donut.”

Mac looked up wearily. “That’s not gonna help. Interpol’s sniffing around, and they’re coming in to talk to me in a few minutes. Bunch of bastards.”

Wow. Interpol. This was big news.

“So, Interpol’s looking into the Colonel’s murder?”

Mac gave me a look that was as nervous as it was exhausted. “A couple of their agents have been asking questions, go through the police report. They have been raking us over the coals.” Mac picked up his cigarette and took a drag. “Let me know if you find out anything about that duchess. I’ve got to get ready for this meeting.”

The screen went blank.

So, Interpol was getting involved. That was big news. I’d never had anything to do with the International Criminal Police Organization. Interpol had come into existence more than 100 years before, in the 1920s, and had steadily grown in power. In the beginning, it was a records clearing house, so that the police of one country could communicate information with another. Then, in the nineties, it rode the wave of the World Wide Web and became the international enforcer of Internet law. Now that almost everything was run through online networks, Interpol statutes were considered the final word in almost every modernized country. Interpol also had priority in dealing with old-fashioned criminals who crossed borders. Occasionally, they’d allow local authorities to handle matters, but only if it suited them. Interpol had gotten so powerful, all we could do at this point was hope they were capable of policing themselves.

The fact that they were looking into the Colonel’s murder was more disturbing than reassuring. It meant that the case was even bigger than I thought. If I felt under-informed. Hopefully, I’d be able to get some details in a few hours.

I put on a pot of coffee. Getting up at the break of day-8:30-had thrown off my internal clock, and I didn’t want to show up at The Land Mine yawning. I stood by the window and watched the sun go down, wondering what I was about to get myself into.

UAKM - Chapter fourteen

Two hours later, I paid the cover charge at the front door of The Land Mine and entered the nightclub. It was still early, and there were only 20 or 30 people in the place. The cavernous dance floor was empty, despite the whirling lights and pounding music. I hoped that I could find my contact soon, before the inevitable headache set in.

I hated the music. It was probably a sign that I was getting old, but then , I’d never liked contemporary music. During my horrid teenage years, techno-rap had been all the rage.

At least most of the currently fashionable music was instrumental, which was a slight improvement. On the downside, it was heavily repetitive and seemed to avoid anything remotely resembling melody. To me, it sounded chaotic, with most of the sounds coming from percussion, and every instrument playing at a different tempo. Over the top of the incessant pounding was a steady stream of sampled and computer-generated sound effects, ranging from bits of feedback to snippets of dialogue.

I made my way to a corner and sat down on a high bar stool behind an elevated table. A bored-looking waitress with a disturbing cool sore took down my order for a tall glass of iced water and walked off without thanking me. I looked around the club and decided that I’d picked the best spot to locate my contact. The bar was on my left and would give me a good look at the faces of everyone who sat there. This was the only section of the club with seating. The other side was dominated by the vast dance floor, which was multilayered, like half an amphitheatre.

I figured that I’d find whoever I was supposed to meet in a booth or at a table like the one I sitting at. I scanned the area methodically, pausing to look closely at every face.

The table next to mine was empty, but the next one was occupied by two young woman.

One was tall and thin, with an unfortunate complexion and a skimpy red outfit that should have been much looser. The other girl was beautiful, but round. She wore a black jacket over a black turtleneck and a long black skirt. She had a lovely smile, and I found myself hoping that she wasn’t there expecting to meet someone special.

Seated at the table behind the two girls was a textbook example of a midlife crisis. The man’s hair weave looked almost real, but his outfit was unbelievable. It looked like he’d culled all his fashion sense from Miami Vice reruns. Under a light blue pinstripe jacket, a fuchsia tee shirt clung to a round belly. He stroked his moustache seductively and glanced provocatively at the two girls. To my chagrin, the girl in black took favourable notice.

Beyond the Don Johnson wanna-be, a young couple groped each other at the table in a dark corner. As they came up for air, I noticed that they had a lot in common. There were both wearing leather jackets, both had multi-coloured hair, and their faces were decorated like Christmas trees with various pins, studs and chains. The two of them had something else in common: breasts. They renewed their attack on each other, and I tried not to think what would happen if their facial jewelry got snagged.

A twenty-something young man with a goatee and glasses with oddly shaped frames sat in a booth next to the amorous couple, obviously intrigued. To his right, another young man sat alone. He seemed nervous, glancing around and running a hand through his short blonde hair.

The other booths and tables were occupied by larger groups of all shapes, sizes, ages and persuasions. The waitress arrived with my water. I sipped it, wondering how long it’d been since I’d drunk a clear beverage, and looked out toward the dance area. Several couples were joined by a scattered handful of accessible-looking exhibitionists. I checked my watch-it was five minutes to ten.

I sat at my table, sipping my free drink for another fifteen minutes. Despite my vigilance, I saw no one who even vaguely resembled the secret-agent persona I had envisioned. I decided to make a reconnaissance of the club. After circling the mammoth dance floor and making quick use of the facilities, I began peering into dark corners, but without success.

I decided to return to my corner table, but it had been homesteaded by three Middle Eastern businessman with varying amounts of facial hair. The sight of them made me think briefly of the man who’d murdered the Colonel, but I dismissed the notion and took a seat at the bar.

As I ordered a few more fingers of water, I caught the face of the young blonde man in the mirror behind the bar. His nervousness seemed to have increased, and he was wringing his hands as he looked around. He certainly didn’t fit my mental picture, but I was coming up empty and really didn’t have anything to lose. I got up from my seat and crossed the room.

As I approached, the young man looked up at me fearfully. I reached the table, stopped, and casually pulled out my pack of Luckies. I held up the pack. “You look like you could use one of these.”

The young man shook his head. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

I shrugged and took one out for myself. “I gave the extra one to David. He seems elated.”

The young man’s eyes widened. I knew I’d found my man, though I felt a distinct twinge of disappointment. This guy wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. I suppose I’d been anticipating a David Niven-type secret agent, sipping a martini and smoking imported cigarettes. I slid into the booth and set my cigarettes and lighter on the table.

“My name’s Murphy. I’m a friend of the Colonel’s. He couldn’t make it.”

The young man looked at me with a desperate expression his face. “Why? What happened?”