Into the Fire (8 page)

“Wow,” I commented, trying to wring a little enthusiasm out of Lena.

“As for the cost, I've already told you, I'm happy to waive my fee. Maybe some of my technicians, too . . . it's possible.”

There was a pause, as if he felt he'd just delivered his knockout blow and was giving us a chance to appreciate it, then he checked his watch and announced, “I must go.”

Realizing I had no way of receiving a link, he pulled out a drawer and started hunting through until he produced an old appointments card and wrote the details on the back. “I can fit you in on the weekend.”

We said our goodbyes and declined the offer of a lift back to the security gate. Lena was still surprisingly mute, despite him repeating his more optimistic prognosis. Plainly she had her doubts about the guy, and in a way, I could see why. He was certainly smooth, but
there was this suspicion that he saw her as nothing more than an intriguing specimen.

“Clancy?” she said, as we neared the gate.

“What?”

“It's out of the question, you know that, don't you?”

“Why?”

“We don't have any money!” she repeated. “No matter how little it costs—”

“It's not a problem.”

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“We can get money.”

“How?”

I didn't answer, mainly 'cuz I'd been thinking about it all night and still hadn't come up with anything that resembled a solution.

“I'll adjust,” she told me firmly. “Once we find somewhere to settle and I get to know it, I'll be just fine.”

“Why should you have to if you can see again?”

We made it to the security gate and had our bracelets removed before we were allowed to leave.

“You heard what he said. There's a good chance,” I persisted, as we walked away.

“Clancy,” she begged, “just leave it, huh?”

But of course, I couldn't, not for long. Later, back at the church, I waited for my moment, then told the others. It wasn't exactly fair: I knew they'd be on my side and start pressuring her. I guess I was just hoping that weight of numbers would eventually tell.

Sure enough, they all got stuck into her, telling her that even if there was only a
one
percent chance, she should grab it.

“We don't have the money!” she cried, yet again.

“We'll get some!” Delilah reassured her.

“How?”

Delilah looked at Jimmy and the little guy at me. Instantly I cut Gordie and Arturo off before they could start talking about robbing a bank again. That whole interchange must've occurred a dozen times in various different versions, but it always died at the same
point—with no one having the slightest idea how we could get our hands on
any
money, let alone something approaching ten grand.

Tell the truth, I didn't know what to do. The one person you'd think would be most enthusiastic about the idea, who had everything to gain, was the one dead set against it. Several times she reassured me she was perfectly happy the way she was, that it was just her new surroundings making her insecure. In fact, she was so persuasive, I almost got to believing her. It was only later, waking up and finding her crying beside me, that I realized how she really felt.

She hadn't been showing any enthusiasm 'cuz she couldn't bear to get her hopes up and be disappointed. We had no money—and even if we did manage to get some, the operation wasn't guaranteed. It was easier for her to cope with what she had, to go on as she was.

I pulled her toward me and kissed away those tears, tasting their salty sadness on my lips. I'd gone over and over this a million times and I could think of only one way of coming up with the money. It was madness—in fact, it was damn near laughable—but it was all I had.

I was gonna have to come out of retirement and find myself one last job.

The following morning I was awakened by this commotion up-top, a lot of screaming and whooping. I struggled out of the sleeping bag and went up to investigate. I was immediately confronted by the apartment block across the street burning away like a billboard for Hades. Flames were leaping into the air so high they disappeared into the smoke, feeding into the general haze; occasionally exploding out in bright orange unfurling ribbons.

Jimmy and the kids were already up there; Gordie, Arturo and even Hanna were letting out squeals of delight every time there was a new eruption, as if they were watching a fireworks display or something, while Jimmy just looked on, a puzzled frown on his face.

“That ain't normal,” he told me, his old eyes bloodshot from the smoke.

“So you keep saying,” I commented absently, my thoughts still locked on finding a job and getting some money.

“Something causes that.”

I nodded, watching as a tongue of flame suddenly shot in our direction, invading the churchyard. He was right: it wasn't normal. Then again, what was, these days?

“Listen, Jimmy,” I muttered, making sure the kids couldn't hear, “I gotta go somewhere.”

“Well, don't look at me,” he said, mindful of the fact that Infinity had put a price on his head.

“No, I mean, alone.”

He stared at me, only then appreciating just how worried I was. “Where?”

“It don't matter,” I replied, glancing behind me, checking Lena hadn't followed me up, “but . . . listen, you know, if for any reason I don't come back . . . take care of Lena, won't you?”

“Whoa! Big Guy!” he said.

“No, no, it's nothing,” I told him, pulling him a little further away. “It's just in case.”

“Where you going?”

I paused for a moment, then sighed. “Places I haven't been in a long, long time.”

“Where?” he persisted, but I refused to tell him. “I don't like this, Big Guy. Not cool. Not cool at all.”

“Jimmy,” I groaned, getting a little impatient.

“Okay, okay—”

“Just look out for her . . . It'll be fine.” I gave a bit of a sigh, wanting to change the subject, to make out it really wasn't that serious. “You looked at that screen?”

“You're kidding, right?” he asked.

“Why not?”

Jimmy shook his head in that infuriating way he has when he thinks the answer should be obvious even to a preoccupied two-year-old.

“The reason I didn't want Lile to turn it on was nothing to do with
me
,” he said, pausing to emphasize my ignorance. “You know why they don't know who I am? That even with a photo they still can't identify me?”

I shrugged, wishing he'd just say it instead of going through the usual humiliating exercise of trying to wring it out of me.

“It's ‘cuz we're ‘nonpeople.' You seen what happens when we pass a screen or get on the moving sidewalk . . .
nada!
We dropped off the database long ago. No one ever dreamed Islanders would ever come back. For all intents and purposes we no longer exist. It's our one great advantage, and the last thing we should do is give them any kind of information—if we turn on something stolen, it might put a search program in operation. So, no cells, no GPS, no pacemaker or implants, nothing that would help them identify us.”

“So the screen's no good?”

He shrugged. “If I can get hold of a couple of things, make some modifications, then maybe.”

Just at that moment, Lena came up the steps. At first she looked a little put out that I hadn't returned to her and our sleeping bag, but as soon as she smelled the smoke and felt the heat of the fire opposite, she forgot all about it.

“That's close.”

“Yeah, and big,” I agreed. “I might take a look around the back. See what's behind all those brambles. Maybe we'll need another way out of here. Should've done it before—in case of unexpected visitors.”

“Good idea,” she said, sounding like she was planning on coming with me.

“Only trouble is, those damn things are gonna rip me to pieces,” I told her, making it sound as if it would be impossible for
me
to get through, let alone someone who couldn't see.

Actually, it was the perfect alibi. I could explore out back where the undergrowth was thickest and hopefully find somewhere to hop over the wall. Later, when I returned—presuming nothing had prevented me—I'd just say it had taken me longer than I thought, that I'd gone on to check out the immediate area.

As it turned out, my comment that the brambles might rip me to pieces wasn't that far off the truth. Several times I thought I'd found a way through, only to come up against a massed army of
razor-sharp needles. My new parka got ripped up good and proper before I finally managed to reach this empty space up against the wall, Nature's no-man's land, all brown and quiet, where the sun wasn't able to reach.

The only problem was, the wall out back was considerably higher than the ones at the front and sides of the churchyard. I worked my way along it, looking for somewhere to get over, and was almost on the point of giving up when, right down in the far corner, I came across this tree that had fallen across it, creating a fairly precarious bridge.

Twenty years ago I would've been up and over there in a matter of seconds; now it was more like negotiating the tricky side of Everest. Nevertheless, I finally managed to make it to the top and found myself looking into an abandoned builder's yard—or maybe even something a bit more specialized, like a stonemason's. I slid awkwardly down the other side, trying to make my landing as gentle as possible, but still collided with the ground with a real thump. I picked myself up, made sure nothing was broken, and soldiered on into the acrid gloom.

I really didn't know that city anymore. It wasn't so much that it had changed—though, of course, it had—more that we didn't recognize each other. Okay, so the last time I saw it, it wasn't enveloped in smoke, there weren't fires everywhere, all this chaos and destruction, but it wasn't just that. It's like when you bump into an old friend you haven't seen for a long time and now you can't remember what you were to each other, how your relationship used to work. And the further I went in the direction of the old neighborhood, the more familiar the surroundings became, the less comfortable I felt. Mind you, bearing in mind what I was planning on doing, I guess that wasn't so surprising.

If it hadn't been so desperate, it would've been funny—me, nigh-on a senior citizen, hoping to get back into the muscle business. I guess I did work out on the Island a little, and yeah, no matter what, I'm still a big guy—but unless someone was planning on putting the frighteners on the residents of the local old folks' home, it was hard to see what job I'd get.

Not that that was my only concern about being back in the old neighborhood. I'm a pretty peaceful guy these days, but working in the business I did, you're gonna make yourself enemies—you're bound to, once you've sworn loyalty to one particular gang. I could think of several people over there I wouldn't want to run into. Mind you, it was a long time ago, and I could only hope that most of them had moved on—in one way or another. Or maybe, like me, they'd got a bit more forgiving in their old age.

I'd been going over and over it: the people I could look up, those who might help, and I gotta say, it was one helluva short list. There were a couple of guys I reckon would've been there for me, but they had to be dead, or near as damn it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized my only real chance was the First Original Sushi Bar.

Bankers probably have a favorite bar where they collect, cabbies a café, but anyone involved in crime in this city, certainly when I was living here, ended up in the First Original. It was partly the food, partly the location, but mostly, I think, the owner. Yoshi was the perfect guy for that sort of operation: welcoming, agreeable, kept his ears open and his mouth shut and occasionally even acted as broker, putting client and criminal together—usually the younger ones, those who hadn't found a gang yet, out to make a name for themselves, or even the occasional freelancer who, for one reason or another, liked to work alone.

Can't tell you how relieved I was to see it still there, a little older, in need of a lick of paint, but as I drew closer, I could see the usual gang of young hopefuls hanging around inside. There were a lot more women than there used to be, which, as an old-fashioned guy, I didn't feel entirely comfortable about, but I guess that's just the way it is now.

I entered hesitantly. Even in a place like that, where no one stares at anyone, a lot of people were staring at me. I hoped it was only out of curiosity and not remembering some age-old grudge, but after taking a quick look around, I realized it was unlikely anyone there would have a problem with me—there wasn't a soul within thirty years of my age. I heard a couple of comments about my appearance
and smell but just kept my head low and made for the bar, which meant Yoshi was able to sneak up on me.

“How are you, sir?” he cried, suddenly standing in front of me with that big beaming smile of his. “How
are
you?”

He'd gone a bit gray and put on a lot of weight, but he was still wearing those crazy game glasses he liked so much, and I gotta say, I was really pleased to see him.

“You remember me?” I asked, with some surprise.

“Of course!” he said, beckoning me over to a stool at the bar.

I sat, feeling cripplingly uncomfortable as people looked over as if a mangy stray had just been offered a bowl of something expensive.

Apart from the clientele, nothing much had changed; like the outside it'd just got a little older and less shiny. The same conveyor belt was clicking and clacking its way around, tempting the customers, but its progress was a lot jerkier now, at times threatening to throw the food onto the floor.

“You escape from the Island, sir?” Yoshi asked, going behind the bar and standing in front of me.

I took my time answering—I mean, he used to be a good guy, but who knew how this place worked now. “Yeah,” I eventually replied. “We all did.”

Almost as if he thought I deserved it, he immediately gave me a couple of plates off the belt, amazingly, after all that time, still remembering my rather conservative taste: a slice of fresh salmon on plain rice, a little soy and hold the wasabi.

“I don't have any money, Yoshi,” I told him.

“Next time,” he said, again with a beaming smile.

I devoured what he gave me almost before his hand had retreated to the far side of the counter. Bearing in mind what I'd been eating, especially over on the Island, a couple of plates of sushi was a helluva luxury. “Wow,” I said, my mouth exploding with delight.

“Good, huh?”

“You said it . . . Actually, Yoshi,” I went on, thinking I might as well get this over with, “money's why I'm here. I badly need some. Like
really
badly.”

To my surprise, he didn't look shocked, nor did he burst into laughter, but that might have had something to do with him coming from a culture that's always been well versed in hiding emotions.

“Ten grand,” I continued.

“Not a lot of money these days,” he commented.

“It is to me, more than you can ever imagine.”

He stared into my face. I think he realized just how desperate I was, but it never seemed to cross his mind to ask why. “What do you want to do?”

“No killing.”

He nodded his head. “Let me think,” he said, taking a few dirty glasses off the bar and stacking them ready to be washed.

A few moments later, two guys in suits sauntered in with “something sinister” woven into their pinstripes. At the far end of the bar there was a stampede to vacate what were obviously their usual stools. They were so young there was no fear of them knowing who I was, but I have to admit, I felt that bit intimidated myself. The bigger guy—Afro-Caribbean, a diamond stud in his ear—ran his eyes around the room, going from one face to the next, stopping when he got to me.

“What's wrong with him?” I muttered to Yoshi.

“Oh, you're new,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Nothing to worry about.”

He immediately went off to greet the two men, to give them the big hello: shaking their hands, pouring complimentary drinks, while I just quietly sat checking out those around me. With their sharp clothes and cool haircuts they couldn't have contrasted more with my reflection in the mirror on the far side of the room if they'd wanted to. Despite my efforts at tidying myself up when I went to find a doc for Lena, I still looked like a wild man. No wonder I'd attracted so much interest when I walked in. Mind you, it wouldn't harm my ability to put the frighteners on someone. As I ran my eyes along the bar, person after person averted their gaze—until I got to Yoshi and his two new companions. They were looking over, obviously in discussion about me.

A few moments later, Yoshi returned. “Maybe I have a job,” he muttered, making sure no one overheard.

“Yeah?”

“Not so difficult, but delicate: letting someone know they're not wanted anymore, time to move on.”

“Okay,” I said. It sounded a little odd, but I was grateful for anything. I also realized that Yoshi must've vouched for me.

“They'll take you to their boss.”

“Sorry?”

“The client.”

I frowned at him, now not understanding. If they had a boss and there was a job, why weren't they doing it? “Who is it?”

Yoshi gave me that fixed smile I remembered so well and I nodded my head, knowing I shouldn't have asked.

For some time I just sat there, waiting for the two guys to finish eating, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. Why would these two need someone else to put the frighteners on? The big guy was as tall as me but probably weighed twenty or thirty pounds more—and it wasn't fat, either. His companion, a sharp-faced little Latino, looked as if he killed people all day just for fun.