Tek Money (7 page)

“Something wrong?”

“I've been trying to go back to the point I Was at when I poked into this before. Trying to get back to the source of the loot, you know,” explained the android. “But this is getting odd. Somebody's put up extra blocks since last time I was browsing, and it looks like maybe I was wrong about the original source. Hey, they're trying to—trying to—”

A small flash of intense blue light grew out of the small computer screen. It seemed to swallow up the android's right hand and then go sizzling up his arm.

He made a surprised, whimpering sound and stood straight up. His small computer fell, hit a gnome and then bounced to the gritty earth. His straw hat popped free of his head and his arms went, rigid, to his sides.

Dillinger tried to speak, but no words came out. He stood stiff as a soldier at attention and he began gnashing his teeth. Then silence filled him and he fell over with a rattling crash.

The fallen computer spoke. “Don't follow this any further, Cardigan,” it warned. Then it, too, died.

11

T
HE
E
MERGENCY
C
ENTER
in the Santa Monica Sector was down near the Pacific Ocean. The visitor parking/landing area overlooked a wide stretch of yellow beach and the clear blue sea. When the black skycar descended for a landing, ten seagulls had been waddling over the grey surface of the field. They scattered now, swirling up into the afternoon.

The man who stepped out of the car was lean, deeply tanned and wearing a dark blue suit. He reached back into the car, poking around in a scatter of ID badges that were strewn on the passenger seat. Selecting one that identified him as Dr. Warren S. Heddison of the Woodland Hills Sector, he attached it to his jacket.

The badge was completely convincing and in less than five minutes he was on Level 13 and striding toward Jabb Marx's room.

A white enameled medibot was placing a lunch tray on the stand beside the banged-up detective. “Good afternoon, doctor.”

“That'll be all for now, nurse. I'm this man's medgroup physician and I have to do a prelim.”

“As you wish, doctor.”

When the bot was gone, the tanned man moved closer to the bed. “Broken nose, three cracked ribs, minor concussion,” he said slowly. “I am mightily impressed, Jabb.”

The big operative said, “Listen, he's a dirty fighter. Hell, he kneed me in the balls before I even—”

“We hired you, old man, because of your reputation for being a dirty fighter,” reminded the spurious doctor. “We wanted somebody inside the Kendricks agency who'd be able to pick a fight with Cardigan and incapacitate him.”

“Soon as I get out of here, I can—”

“No, you won't make any further attempts, Jabb.” He shook his head.

“But, listen, about the fee you promised. I really need the money, what with two ex-wives and a kid who—”

“Oh, we always pay, regardless of results. That's agency policy.” He went over to the window. “Damn, a gull just crapped on my car.”

“I know I can take care of Cardigan if you give me—”

“We'll use some other plan.” He smiled as he turned to face the injured detective. “How does this sound? We have you beaten up so severely that you die. Then we see that Cardigan is framed for the job. That would get him off the Devlin Gun business, wouldn't it?”

“That's not funny.”

“Have I ever claimed to be a comedian?” he asked. “No, I'm a very effective government agent. And that, I assure you, is a job where a sense of humor is a distinct handicap.”

“Quit talking about having me killed, funny or not.”

The false Dr. Heddison said, “I really dropped in to tell you that you're to be paid, despite the way you futzed up the job. In fact, the ten thousand dollars has already been, discreetly, deposited in your various accounts.”

“Great, I really appreciate—”

“But, old man, you have to be extremely careful from here on out. Don't confide in anyone, don't go near Cardigan again. Is that understood?”

“Listen, in spite of the thing with Cardigan going wrong—I'm still a pro. I'm not going to screw up again, Gardner.”

“Ah, but you just have.” He frowned in disappointment. “You used my name.”

“Nobody's here and the room isn't tapped. I checked that.”

“So did I. Yet it's bad policy, Jabb, to use my name at all.”

“Hell, I'm not even certain your name is Gardner Munsey. So even if—”

“I'll be going now,” he announced. “Enjoy your lunch and watch yourself.” He walked to the door. “We'll be watching you, too.”

Wolfe Bosco sighed a large forlorn sigh. “I'm ashamed to have you see me like this,” said the small, wrinkled man, both elbows resting on top of his narrow little desk.

Jake was sitting opposite him in one of the many small cubicles on this level of the Actors Guild: America offices in the Hollywood Sector of Greater LA. “I've seen you somewhere before—in a more elevated occupation?”

Bosco sat up and spread his arms wide. “It's me, Jake. Wolfe Bosco, once a crackerjack talent agent, here and then up on the New Hollywood satellite. At present, alas, a mere shadow of my former grand self.”

“That's right, you've helped us with information on a couple cases,” recalled Jake. “Up on that movie satellite a few months ago you provided Gomez with—”

“That guy.” The little fallen agent made a wry face. “I was living like a king, my client Jacko Fuller was starring in
Love Me Forever
and then—”

“He's an android, isn't he? You must be a great agent to con them into hiring an andy and thinking he's not.”

“Like I told your Judas of a partner, Jake, everybody in the movie business is young, extremely youthful,” he said. “They didn't know that my Jacko was merely a replica of a big superstar of a generation ago. Hell, they didn't even tumble to the fact he isn't flesh and blood,” he said sadly. “Not until Gomez goes and spills the beans.”

“Nope, Wolfe. Gomez didn't tell anybody about your con.”

“You think not? Well, it was just one day—” He held up a single, knobby little finger. “One day after him and that skinny carrot-topped Newz reporter scrammed off New Hollywood, I was called on the carpet by the adolescent who was producing this epic flicker. Me and Jacko got bounced right then and there and it's been downhill ever since.” He raised a hand and let it fall, rapidly, to smack the desktop. “We're rooming in a dump on LaCienega that's even rattier than the place we shared before we ascended to fame and fortune.”

Jake said, “If you're finished with the autobiography, Wolfe, I'd like to commence with the business I came here for.”

“You want to hire some talent?” He eyed Jake hopefully. “I still run a little agency on the side and maybe I got somebody to fill the bill.” He lowered his voice. “Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to do this, but for an old friend and customer—”

“I'm trying to locate a young woman who figures in a case we're working on, Wolfe,” Jake told him, taking a sheet of faxpaper out of his coat pocket. “Here's my search permit from the front office.”

“This is going to be dull,” lamented the little agent. “It isn't even show business.”

“I think maybe she's an actress. Called herself Janine Traynor, but there's nobody by that name living or working in Greater LA,” said Jake. “I'll give you a description and we can see if it fits anybody in the Guild files.”

“Okay, okay.” With no enthusiasm whatsoever, Bosco pulled a keypad over closer to the center of his desk. “A few months ago I was basking in the perennial sunshine up on New Hollywood. Today, boy, I'm helping a seedy skip tracer track down some flea-brained actress. That's what they call tragedy, Jake—a fall from greatness.”

“Sad,” said Jake. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, in a sec.” He hit a key and behind him a large rectangular wall panel changed into a vidscreen. “Commence with the description of this strayed lady.”

On the screen appeared a woman's face.

“We'll start with the hair,” said Jake. “It was dark and—”

“Hold your horses.” Bosco pushed at another key and another panel blossomed into a screen. It showed forty eight squares, each a different dark shade. There was a number superimposed on each. “We go about this scientifically around here. Which kind of dark hair are we talking about?”

After studying the chart for a moment, Jake replied, “Number thirty.”

The woman in the picture acquired dark hair of shade #30.

In a little over ten minutes there was a photo of the woman who told Jake she was Janine Traynor on the wall behind the little agent.

“That's her,” decided Jake. “Is she in your files?”

“If she's an actress, she's got to be.” He, boredom showing on his wrinkled little face, poked at another key.

A small box appeared at the bottom of the photo of Janine. It read—
No person of this description on roster.

Jake said, “Tell them to look for her with different color hair.”

“More dull work.”

Janine turned to a redhaired young woman in the picture. A new box announced—
Janet Mavity/Guild Card #137596-SS/Rep: Self.

“Address?” requested Jake.

Bosco flicked a toggle at the edge of his desk and a faxmemo came fluttering up out of a slot. “What do you know?—she lives in the Sherman Oaks Sector. That's a high-rent part of town—especially for a gal who doesn't even have an agent.”

Grinning, Jake took the memo. “Much obliged, Wolfe.” He got up. “Good luck to you and Jacko.”

“If this redhead kid doesn't work out for you, Jake,” said Bosco as Jake took his leave, “I represent at least three dames who are ringers for her and sexier.”

12

T
HE PRETTY BLONDE
android took Gomez by the arm. “If you'll come with me,
por favor
,” she requested.

“You speak a little Spanish, I see.” He accompanied her toward an arched doorway at the far end of the huge, windowless Reception Room RD#2.

“I'm the latest model Mechanix International Customer Services android,” she explained, smiling politely. “Functioning as such in any part of California requires being able to communicate in Spanish.”

“
Sí
, I should have realized,” said the detective. “I thought the initial sight of my Latino charm had given you the gift of tongues.”

“You're
muy loco
, Mr. Gomez.” She led him into a lengthy corridor with plastiglass walls. “I mean that in a positive sense, of course.”

The walls were illuminated and filled with pale blue water. Hundreds of small, bright tropical fish flickered and flashed within the walls.

“Nice aquarium,” he observed.

“Mr. Barragray collects fish.”

“Obviously.”

At the back door at corridor's end, she stopped. “It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Gomez,” she assured him. “
Vaya con dios.
”

“
Gracias.
”

She let go his arm, turned and walked back the way they'd come.

The door whispered open. Another pretty android, this one dark-haired, stood smiling just across the threshold. “
Como esta?
” she asked, smiling. “If you'll come along with me, I'll escort you to Mr. Barragray's private office.”

“More fish,” he noticed.

The high plastiglass walls of this new corridor were also full of tiny flashing fish.

His android guide slowed, pointing. “Look! The little purple one just ate a silver one,” she said. “I find that amusing.”

“They built in a sense of humor along with your linguistic abilities.”

Barragray was a tall, broadshouldered man in his early forties. His blond hair was wavy and long and he had a checkered cloth napkin tied around his thick neck. “
Buenas dias
, Mr. Gomez,” he said, standing up behind his low wide lucite desk.

“I see they programmed you, too.”

“How's that?”

“Nothing, a little android humor.”

“I'm human, I assure you, although some of the staff think I've got gears inside me instead of organs.” He gestured at a chair and sat down again. “I was having a little lunch. Too busy to get out today. Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

“We have an excellent galley on this floor, I saw to that. I can have them send in some enchiladas or tamales.”

“Actually, I eat only Hungarian food.” He settled into the indicated chair.

“How's that? Oh, I see—more humor.”

Gomez smiled, then asked, “You and Peter Traynor were friends?”

Barragray set down the fork he'd picked up. “I certainly tried to be Pete's friend,” he answered. “As I'm sure you know already, Amy St. Mars and I have been good friends since college days over in Europe. Pete, though—I made a real effort to get close to the guy, but without much luck, I'm afraid.”

“You were aware he was addicted to Tek?”

“Yes, it was obvious.” He paused to eat some of his brown rice. “There are, I'm afraid, a few other employees in this division who use the stuff regularly. But if they do their work—most of them are exceptionally bright, by the way—it's my policy to let them stay on.” He set the fork to one side again and leaned back in his chair. “Pete had just about reached, I have to admit, the limits of toleration around here. I was trying to stay on his side and keep him on our payroll—he was a very gifted technician in spite of his habit—but I've been under increasing pressure of late to sever him.” He looked directly at Gomez. “There's no possibility, I suppose, that his death was a suicide?”

“None. Why?”

“Pete had been getting worse lately. Jumpy, depressed, suspicious,” said the Gunsmiths, Ltd., First Vice President. “You've heard, I'm sure, of his completely unfounded suspicions about weapons being smuggled out of our San Andreas Arsenal facility?”