The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy (32 page)

“Yeah, I know, I heard. You’re trying to get in with
El Diablos
.”

“That’s correct.” Bridge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it?”

The grin split Sid’s face from ear to ear. “I got an in.”

Bridge sighed and covered his eyes. “This is serious, Sid. If you are fucking with me, Aristotle over there is going to show you how far up your ass a shoe can be lodged before you taste sole.”

“I’m not fucking with you, Bridge. I got an in with
El Diablos
.”

“I’m listening.”

“My cousin runs a Trip board on the ‘Net, see. All the hackers what’s on this board can get the hookup for their Trip habits, and all the suppliers that post on the board are
Diablos
dealers.”

Bridge finished the thought. “And your cousin had to get vetted by
Diablos
to post about dealer locations, so he’s met with at least somebody on the Shotcaller level. You’re telling me your cousin can get me in with a Shotcaller.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’m telling you! He owes me a bunch of favors, ‘cos I got my mom to pay for the GlobalNet space. She thinks it’s some music board, which it sort of is ‘cos I got the Trip heads hooked on my demos. They love my shit.”

“Get ‘em racing on that Trip shit and they’ll swear they see ghosts in the GlobalNet. Trip heads aren’t known for their taste in music.”

“Or hygiene,” Mu added.

Aristotle piled on. “Or sanity.”

Sid waved an annoyed hand at the bodyguards. “Yeah, yeah, but this is your in, Bridgey!”

“Don’t call me Bridgey.”

“Sorry.” Sid stared at Bridge expectantly, his eyes begging for the words of affirmation to spill from Bridge’s lips.

Bridge sighed again. Sid had him over a barrel. “What do you want, Sid?”

“You know what I want, Bridge. I want you to make an A&R guy listen to my demos. ALL my demos.”

“Sid, you have like thirty demos. Every one of them is a different style. You’re like a human karaoke machine. He’s going to be clawing his eyes out by the time he gets to the nip-hop.”

Chapter 6

March 7, 2029

6:21 p.m.

Somehow, Sid came through. Two hours after they parted at
Louie Lou
, Bridge sat in the
Glitter
making small talk with the owner, Gizzard. The first crowds of the night were filtering in, the timid early-goers who would be in and out by midnight, scared off by the true denizens of the club’s night life, the hookers and predators, the criminals and the killers. Gizzard had been bragging for the last half-hour about his latest production with his bi-sexual live-in girlfriends, known professionally as Ginger and the Bambina. To hear Gizzard tell the tale,
The Bambina Returns
would be some sort of porn magnum opus, the kind of hardcore epic that would reshape the face of the GlobalNet porn industry. Gizzard’s business was not nearly so profitable as it had been, though. The bar owner had confided in Bridge that mainstream fare like
Misogynist Theater
had put a serious dent in his downloads. Bridge didn’t have the heart to tell the man that he was an avid
Theater
watcher.

“That Glowbug thing, that’s been a goddamn miracle,” Gizzard gushed. “Cut my overhead in half. I was getting worried I’d have to choose between Ginger and the Bambina.”

“I know a guy that can get you a virtual actor setup, real cheap,” Bridge replied. “The whole thiրing is pretty damn awesome. You get some gear for the girls to work on, right? It’s got sensors that the camera reads, and your CG guys come back in at post and create completely real looking dudes, right? Or chicks, or animals, or whatever you need, right? As long as your actors have the chops, they can be banging thin air and the whole thing looks top-notch. Can even do it in 3D. You interested?”

“I don’t know about that, Bridge. I’m a traditionalist, you know? You can’t fake the real thing, it just don’t look right. Besides, I’m more than willing to do all the male parts for free, know what I’m saying?” Gizzard’s normally thick Jersey accent became even more accentuated every time he spoke about sex. His black top-knot bounced up and down like a horse’s tail as he emphasized his words with hip thrusts. Bridge snickered without feeling.

His phone rang and he excused himself from the conversation. Gizzard got up and busied himself at the bar. Bridge had never been so happy to hear Sid’s whiny voice. “I got your hookup, Bridge.”

“This better be solid, Sid.”

“Solid as concrete, man. You set up the demo?”

“Yep. I’ve got a meeting in a couple of days with my man Baku Baku. He’s solid, for an A&R guy. You sent me everything you want him to hear?”

“You have my entire catalog. Thanks, Bridge! I am over the moon.”

“Hey, no promises. He might hate it as much as I do.”

“I got it. Ok, you go to the Little Tokyo train pickup. They’ll meet you there.”

“Did they say some stupid shit like ‘come alone’ or something they know I’ll ignore?”

“No, they expect you to bring the bodyguards.”

“How soon?”

“You got an hour to get there.”

Bridge glanced at the clock in his personal HUD. With the crappy early evening traffic, he’d barely make it. After saying his goodbyes to Gizzard, he gathered his entourage quickly and ordered a cab. On the ride over, he laid down the plan.

“I want both of you close. Mu, I want you to keep us in one of those bubbles the whole time. No telling when some motherfucker is going to try to make good with the boss by capping me. How long can you keep that up?”

Mu grinned. “With or without the taser coating?”

“With. These bitches are all about the show of strength.”

“Hour. Maybe two if we don’t move too much.”

Aristotle provided the cheery optimism. “We still need to breathe, though. The field is air-permeable, correct? Could they not merely gas us if they wish to rid themselves of us?”

Bridge scowled. “Aren’t you the cheery one? What are the chances they’ve got killer gas? If they get anywhere near us, they won’t use gas unless it’s something they have immunity to. I don’t think
Diablos
has that kind of gear. I hope, anyway.” He wasn’t entirely sure, of course. What little he knew of
Diablos’
capabilities came secondhand from Stonewall. “We’ll have to take that chance. Whatever happens let me do the talking. Just stand there and look menacing, got it?” The two nodded.

An interminably long ride later, the cab pulled up at the intersection of Alameda and 1
^st
with minutes to spare. Bridge shuffled his crew towards the rail line stop, a dilapidated bench with a beat-up street term on a covered platform. Three tough-looking Mexicans hung around the bench, the visible portion of the
Diablos
guard contingent. Bridge spotted at least three other guards in the surrounding area, one across the street on a roof overlooking the whole scene. The roof lookout was the only one visibly armed, but Bridge knew all carried some form of heater. One of the bench-warmers was huge, only a few inches smaller than Aristotle. His left arm was an oversized cybernetic replacement with a hinged door in the forearm that Bridge assumed contained a concealed gun or missile launcher that could be raised, fired and concealed again in seconds. Based on what he knew of
Diablos
hierarchy, this was the likely leader of the guard squad.

The giant gave Bridge a twitchy nod as the group approached, saying, “You Bridge?” Bridge nodded, and the man motioned down the line. Bridge could hear the rumbling of the approaching train from behind. “Costas. You almost didn’t make it.”

“Traffic,” Bridge responded. His eyes were fixed on Costas’s cyberarm. Despite the cheap devil graphics plastered on the metal’s surface, Bridge could tell that the gear was expensive. The compartment alone was worth almost as much as a mid-line crèche. It was hard to spot even from this close. The quality of that little extra set it apart from the typical black-market streetware. Bridge knew a guy that could get that level of gear, but no one he knew used it because of the cost.

“You know the drill,
hombre
. Arms out.” Bridge nodded to his bodyguards, telling them to allow the frisking. The other two bench-warmers did the deed, and they were none too gentle. One even went far enough to give Bridge a ball-tap as he finished. Bridge coughed, trying hard not to double over in pain and nausea. As the pat down completed, the train rattled to an ear-ringing stop, its brakes shattering the night with a squeal. “You clean. Welcome to
El Diablos’
express, eh?” He smiled with a mouthful of space, probably half his teeth gone while the other half was a rotting, yellowed mess.

Bridge tipped his imaginary hat and turned to the train’s open door. Aristotle and Mu strode in a step behind him. Five men inhabited the car, two seated in each corner with their backs to a wall, while their three bodyguards stood holding automatic weapons. “Park it,” the man seated to the left commanded.

“We’ll stand,” Bridge replied. He wasn’t sure how easy sitting would be with the bubble surrounding them. A slight bluish shimmering in the air separated him from the armed men.

“I see you brought your pet wizard,” the other seated man said. He was shorter than Bridge, probably 5’10” at best, but he was thick as a brick. His arms had the muscular curves of a steroid junkie, rippling muscles covered with thick veins that bulged with every movement. He wore a simple black muscle shirt to show off his guns, a tapestry of devil-themed tattoos covering his arms. His chest glistened in the wavering light, and Bridge could see that he’d had ceramic implants placed in key locations on his body. These implants would provide his vital organs like heart and lungs better protection than a bulletproof vest. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and bushy eyebrows overhung the tattoos on his face. Even seated, the man was an imposing figure, and his eyes bore an intensity that ratcheted up the intimidation factor. This had to be Nacho, the leader of
El Diablos
. Based on that assumption, the clean-shaven man across the aisle must be Nacho’s second-in-command, Chimuelo.

“Never leave home without it,” Bridge replied. One of the bodyguards approached the bubble warily. “I wouldn’t come much closer if I were you. Unless you want the shit shocked out of you.”

Mu wiggled his fingers and tiny darts of lightning sparked off the bubble’s surface. His face split with a most devious grin.

“You approached us with an offer of peace, we listened. You really think such precautions are necessary?” Chimuelo asked.

“I’m still alive because I’m not a fucking idiot. This talk wasn’t my idea. I’m well aware what
El Diablos
thinks of me.”

Nacho fiddled with the end of his mustache. “Fair enough. You want to talk about peace. Let’s talk about peace.”

Bridge raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re actually willing to talk about peace? I was under the impression you wanted to wipe
Los Magos
out.”

The corner of Nacho’s mouth curled up with an evil twitch. “I ain’t a completely, what do you call it, unreasonable man. What are
Los Magos
gonna give to make it happen?”

Bridge studied the man’s expressions carefully. Despite his words, Bridge didn’t think Nacho gave a good goddamn about peace. The Mexican had the air of confidence that came with secret knowledge, with some hidden assurance that Bridge couldn’t quite puzzle out yet. “Give? Normally in a negotiation, the injured party is not the one expected to give up anything. You attacked them after all. You killed their leader. What more do you think they are going to give up?”

Nacho’s smile got impossibly bigger. “Yeah, I did that. Who they got in charge over there, eh?”

“Stonewall.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mr. Richardo. You know, we used to be tight, ‘til he got pretensions of, what do you call, grandeur. Started thinking he was some kind of savior for the peoples. That brother thinks his shit don’t stink no more. But I know him. He got all kinds of blood on his hands. He used to use me and my boys as muscle, back when he worked with
los blancos
, that Twiggy fucker. Used us so he wouldn’t get the white boy’s hands dirty. He ain’t no saint.”

“What does that have to do with the war?”

“Nothing really, except for this. The Families are gangs. We’re soldiers. We ain’t no fucking Red Cross. We ain’t no charity. Stonewall wants to tie himself down with all these parasites, it’s his call. But the Families are about earners.
El Diablos
will do the business
Los Magos
wants to forget.”

“Drugs and whores and violence the old fashioned way,” Chimuelo finished. The words sounded so plastic coming from his mouth. Bridge took a look at Nacho’s second-in-command, and was immediately ill at ease. Almost sterile in appearance with hair meticulously close-cropped, his light-olive skin was covered in tattoos of all varieties, but something about the work bothered Bridge. There was a clarity of line, a fastidious neatness about the ink that felt out of place on this dingy train among his dingier companions. Chimuelo smiled and the illusion was broken. His teeth were a crooked, yellowed mess. They looked as out of place on his face as a dog turd on a lace doily. “There’s a reason
El Diablos
don’t have a citizen’s brigade.”

“The way I hear it, it’s because you shot them all.”

A flicker of anger broke Nacho’s confident façade for a moment. “They were weak,” he hissed. “We don’t go no room for non-earners in our tribe. And we ain’t got no room for weakness.”

“The citizen’s brigades are for people with nowhere else to go!” Aristotle blurted out. “These people have had their homes stolen from them, their lives irrevocably destroyed. And you want to turn them into common street thugs?”

Bridge tossed his bodyguard a baleful glare, but Nacho was unfazed. “The weak get crushed by the strong, big guy. That is the way of the world.” Nacho stood up and stretched, his arms reaching from the seats on one side to the seats on the other side of the aisle. “Would you like to prove how strong you are?” he said with a gleam in his eye.

Bridge interrupted. “We didn’t come here for a wrestling match.” As he spoke, more things occurred to him. He paid special attention to the guns the bodyguards carried. Most of the Families were well-armed, but their gear was old, made up of various pistols, knockoff AK’s and cheap Chinese copies of other popular guns. What automatics they had were unreliable. But the gear these three displayed was almost obscene. Not only was it pristine, still suffused with that new gun smell, it was upscale. Two had real H&K submachine guns, the new caseless types that could empty a 40-round clip in seconds. The other carried an automatic shotgun with a 20-round drum as if it was a sack of potatoes.
El Diablos
had a sugar daddy. Bridge knew a guy that could get that kind of gear, but his ۀear, butprices were way beyond the means of any of the Families, or so he thought.

“What did you come here for then,
homes
? After all the shit we’ve taken from
Los Magos
, after the way they threw us aside like garbage to take in all these leeches, you expect we’re going to throw down like we did and not finish the job? We just going to bloody their nose then kiss the booboo and make it all better? Stonewall wants peace, he can have the peace at the end of this!” He grabbed the shotgun from his bodyguard and squeezed off three angry shots, filling the car with thunder and smoke. Pellets ricocheted everywhere, tinkling off the metal walls, lodging in the bulletproof glass. A few tore the flesh of one of the bodyguards and he fell to a knee momentarily. A blazing stare from Nacho forced him back to his feet with gritted teeth, his face a crisscross of bloody, razor thin scratches.