Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (4 page)

I sit up, mentally preparing myself for a new day at work. She rolls over on the bed to face me; still awake, she looks as though she hasn’t slept a wink.

“Arkham…”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

“Do you ever think about…stopping? Settling down?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” I’m lying, and she knows it.

More silence.

“I’d really like that, you know?”

Silence, while I think what I’m going to say next.

“If I change my mind, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

“Okay.” She’s skeptical, and doesn’t bother hiding it. “Are you going?”

“I’ve got work to do.” I nod. One lie after another. “At one in the morning?” She sighs.

Pause.

“You should stop playing games.”

“You’re probably right, but what can I do?”

The roar of the dog track always puts me in a good mood. Originally, it had been dug out of the layer separating Seventh Level from the next level—the ceiling, or the floor, depending on your point of view. Naturally, MetroPo knows exactly where it is, but the owner, that lardball khan Ugube, has always had some very influential support which keeps any interference at bay. And so, this clandestine dog track has survived the passage of time and various council administrations. The next race starts in fifteen minutes.

The patrons would hold their own in a social message about racial integration. There’s always a bit of everything here, with the notable if not obvious exception of dwarves, they’d never gamble with ogres. Even a table of gremlins who, rendered senseless by the chaos of the gambling hall, always end up losing any amount of money that mysteriously materializes in their pockets.

There are no terraces for the punters at the dog track, this problem is remedied by numerous screens fixed to the ceiling above the tables in the gambling area.

I drink my whisky by myself, musing over my next bet, when Eton’s familiar pig-face appears before me. Half-ogre, with a furtive air, thin for his wretched sort. His smile reveals a mouth full of crooked, sharp beige teeth. Disgusting.

“Hey, boss! You bettùng, boss?”

“Well, well. Someone who owes me a favour.”

A couple of weeks ago I caught Eton dealing Onirò in a lurid street packed with junkies on Seventh. After I confiscated the drugs (they never made it to the evidence room) I let the poor shit go, he scarpered promising to return the favour.

“Hot tùp. Number four, four boss.” He shows me his hand. “You and me, ùs even, eh?” he asks hopefully, four filthy fingers still sticking up.

“Almost. Fix me up with a couple of lines and we’ll be just
fùne
.”

Nodding, he melts into the crowd and returns a few minutes later and discreetly passes me a wrap of Onirò under the table. Fatso doesn’t like other people dealing in his places, but Eton likes living on the edge. Or: I’ve always thought that Eton was beaten too much as a child or not beaten enough, therefore he’s not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer. Just to give more of an idea, he always tries to wink at me when he says hello, but he closes both eyes and confuses himself and ends up scratching his arm like a lost child. I shake my head. Who knows which drug ultimately liquefied his brain.

I put the last bit of cash I have in my pocket on the tip he gave me, and go back to the table to wait for the race to start. Drinks are on the house for all the different kinds of cops, but when it comes to the bets, the rules are the same for everybody. Very democratic.

There’s just five minutes to go before the start of the race when a hand as big as a boulder slams down on my shoulder in a less than polite fashion and makes me choke on my last mouthful of whisky. I’m still spluttering when I recognise the pungent tang of ogre sweat emanating relentlessly from the creature alongside me. Ugube’s efforts to give his gorillas a respectable air always have comical results. This orange-skinned beast in his double-breasted jacket resembles a pile of sausages wrapped in newspaper, while the handkerchief peeking out of his top pocket vaguely echoes a picnic blanket.

“Khan wants talk you,” he informs me, carefully avoiding “i” and syntax.

The office he roughly takes me to is quite elegant for the operative centre of someone from pig mafia. Ever since I met him, I’ve been convinced that Ugube suffers from an acute inferiority complex compared to human beings, which says it all. To start with he’s the only ogre who uses “i” correctly when speaking. Secondly, he’s obsessed with fashion. Thirdly, he constantly forces himself to be
polite
. He’s aggressive, intimidating, sometimes deliberately offensive, but always remains within the boundaries of politeness. Listening to two tons of sweaty mafia blubber threaten you
courteously
is ridiculous as well as bizarre. But the victims don’t usually enjoy the luxury of laughter, and if they do, not for very long.

“Lieutenant Arkham. What a pleasure. Please take a seat.”

Inside the office there aren’t any other chairs apart from his extra-large armchair. Fat old arsehole.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, massaging my bruised deltoid courtesy of the thug.

The gorilla plants himself behind me with his hands behind his back. Slowly, Ugube peels his gaze off one of the security monitors and appraises me, this is accompanied by a slimy smirk while he gears up for one of his stupid fucking monologues.

“I thought we’d cleared up the betting issue. No more bets until you pay off your debt, I thought that’s what I told you.” With excruciating slowness, he picks up a fan from the desk and starts to fan his face despite the gigantic electric fan which is ineffectually wafting air onto the contours of his body distorted by obesity.

“I thought it was clear.”

“It was just small change.”

I’ve got an overwhelming desire to stick a bullet in his skull. Or in his throat, underneath that jelly-like, wobbly triple chin.

Ugube snaps his fan shut, slamming it onto the desk.

“Just
my
small change, to be exact.”

I say nothing. What can I say? Nothing that can stop my bones from being broken. The race begins, number four breaks clean away from the others. On the last bend, the dog skids dangerously across the track, spraying dust over his competition, but he manages to stay ahead and crosses the finishing line first. Good on you, Eton, the only time you’ve ever given me a decent tip-off and I miss it. The mound of shit produces another of his sickly smiles.

“I’ll knock your winnings off your debt, even though I shouldn’t, really. Do you want to know why I do it, Lieutenant Arkham?” He leans forward over the desk, like a bag of rubbish rolling slowly, but inexorably, out of an overflowing dumpster. The armchair creaks in exhaustion at this endless abuse. “Do you know?” he asks again, evidently expecting a reply.

“Because I’m a nice bloke.”

He laughs, a series of convulsions ripple through his flabby body, this sends a shudder of horror right down the length of my spine. After a delay of a couple of seconds, the thug behind me starts cackling too, maybe he felt some sort of moral obligation towards his khan. I force myself not to look at them as if they’re cockroaches, but I’m not sure I’ll have much success.

“That, too,” says Ugube, once he’s done taking the piss. “I couldn’t live without your
witty contribution
. But I also appreciate your operative support, as you know. Speaking of which, I happen to have a job for you. You’re free next weekend, aren’t you? Will you do this small favour for me, and make me happy?”

The mere idea of giving pleasure to that…
thing
. Another shudder dies, unexpressed, within my imagination.

“This is what I’m here for.”

“Ah, I’m sure you are. Nothing…different from the usual. A lorry has to go through customs without…complications. Wave that magic badge around a little, Lieutenant Arkham. I’ll let you have the details the day before, the usual procedure.”

There’s not a lot I can say. I keep my mouth shut and grind my teeth. The khan is very pleased with himself, and he’s not exactly killing himself to hide it. Sometimes I get the feeling that he doesn’t murder me because he enjoys having me in his power, and not because I’m useful to him. He gets his kicks seeing me running up and down like a fucking puppet.

“Before you go, I’d like to remind you that you still owe me one hundred and seventy-nine thousand, two hundred crowns. I’ve already adjusted the balance after your…win this evening. If everything goes well this weekend, I’ll cancel the interest, as usual. You may go.”

He dismisses me with a bored flick of his bejewelled hand. Turning round to face the guard who stands aside with a scornful grimace. I take just one step and Ugube calls me back.

“Ah, Lieutenent…” He waits until I turn round, fixing me with that repugnant sadistic leer. “Give Rea my warmest regards.”

On leaving the office, the only thing I can think about is that Ugube is a transparent plastic bag full of diarrhea. It almost lifts my spirits.

The insistent chirping of my mobile pulls me out of my tormented early-morning dozing. I silence it and force my eyelids apart. It
truly
is morning this time, or at least it is according to the standards of this sun-less city. A dopey-looking bloke looks back at me, his eyes are a labyrinth of capillaries injected with blood, dark bags of tiredness and unshaven. It takes a while before I realize it’s my own reflection in the rearview mirror. Digging around in my pocket in search of a cigarette, I discover with horror that I’ve only got two left.

I sift through my memory to try and piece together last night. As a way of cheering myself up after my little trip to Ugube’s office, I treated myself to a visit to Two of Spades, one of the best places for picking up drunk girls. A redhead with an arse to die for I met at the bar told me about this innocent fantasy she had about getting screwed while being handcuffed. So, we threw back a few drinks, a couple of lines of Onirò, and I ended up cuffing her to the handrail in the disabled toilet, thus making her teenage dream come true.

Unfortunately, by the time I left the redhead, I was totally incapable of driving, so I stopped in a semi-deserted car park a few blocks away. In response to some subconscious instinct, I even set the alarm before collapsing onto the steering wheel.

Seeing as there’s something of a cigarette shortage, I decide to start the new day with a good old snort of magic powder. Eton went one step further than a couple of lines, this is a clear sign that he’s got a big consignment on his hands. Note to self: when I finish my stash again, go and visit Eton in the usual street, where he will
undoubtedly go back to dealing
, thus confirming his status as a moron.

Onirò is fantastic for getting you back on your feet after a night like last night. A line makes you feel fine. That makes me chuckle. Very funny. Wonder if I’m just laughing in my head or out loud, too. Who knows how many junkies have laughed at the same joke; in fact, who knows how many junkies are laughing at that joke this very minute. God, I’m so hilarious, I think to myself, turning the keys in the ignition. Give me a prize. Fifty thousand crowns would do nicely.

I join the sleepy ten-to-seven traffic, honking my horn at the slightest delay just to get on people’s nerves. Hello, average citizen, another shitty day in your futile life, it’s better I tell you now before you delude yourself.

My next move, I muse while frantically chewing on a piece of gum, is to talk to one of the Lovl’Atherons. Find out what explanation (false, obviously) they have for her death. One way or another, asses
always
lie. That’s how you stay at the top of the heap for a thousand years. You lie.
Always
. Even when there’s no need.

Oh, crap, I’ve got to meet the insignificant Nohl Cohl in two hours. Better switch my phone off before he realises I have absolutely no intention of going. Prick.

I get to the visitor’s entrance at Lovl’Atheron Tower just after eight. The effect of the modest dose of Onirò has almost faded away. From a certain point of view, this is a good thing, even though, initially, it seems like a tiny tragedy. In theory, the skyline of Nectropis was supposed to be crowned by eleven spires, about a kilometre high, the residential homes for the elf dynasties and, in the centre, the Civic Tower. For one reason or another, the Civic Tower was never completed, and there’s a sort of hole there. In my opinion it looks much more genuine this way. The Federation of Free Peoples has never been anything like its description in the constitution, “an equal brotherhood of all free and independent sentient beings”, blah blah blah. It’s always been one big board game for the elves, that’s what. The city profile simply describes the real state of affairs.

Each dynasty takes care of a bit of everything, from banking to heavy industry, as well as the media, supermarkets, means of transport, and unbeknownst to most naïve residents, organized crime. They are extremely up-to-date as far as the latter sector is concerned, especially as they get such a good return from it.

The hall of public relations annoys me. It’s unnaturally clean for a place where, every single fucking day, thousands of people queue up coughing, sneezing, dropping litter and trailing in shit from outside. If they didn’t use magic to clean it, it would be a pigsty. In front of some of the windows there is already a queue of morning clients. Without bothering to find out if I’m at the right window, I choose the longest queue, for the sadistic pleasure of pushing in and seeing the look on their faces. I slap my badge on the window and introduce myself.

“I’d like to talk to someone about the Inla Lovl’Atheron case.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but this window is for—“

“Call someone. I’ll wait.”

She’s used to seeing all kinds of people and she knows instantly there’s no getting rid of me, so she picks up the phone and dials an internal number. Five numbers, an excellent indication as to how many people there are in the tower. Looking up, I spot a small sign above the window explaining its function, it also explains why it’s so popular.