The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy (34 page)

The next few days were infuriating. Though constantly busy, much of Bridge’s efforts were fruitless and frustrating. No sooner would he get close to a simple deal when he’d have to perform a quick shuffle step to avoid catching some splash damage from the troubles. The first night had found him at the
Tanz
, hooking Bobby Kneecaps up with a new money laundering service. Two steps from the deal being done, one sentence from collecting his fee and sending Kneecaps across the crowded club to meet the Aardvark, the whole scene exploded at the crack of one stray gun shot. A crew of three
Magos
had chased a foolishly solitary
Diablos
rock-slinger into the back door. The disturbance started with a low rumble of perturbed dancers, shouting at the asshole that had tripped across their gyrations. The telltale
pop-pop-pop
of old school nine millimeters burping out bullets parted the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. The
Diablo
runner went down, blood splattering the horrified club-goers. Bridge and his client dove in opposite directions as the club cleared in record time, the deal forgotten. Bridge made it out unscathed, but at least one bystander was struck by haphazard return fire.

Five minutes after Bridge had cleared the door, he heard the whooping sirens of the CLED forces raiding the place. He later learned from the
Tanz’s
owner, Yazmine, that CLED had used the disturbance as a convenient excuse to search the place for anything and everything, including Glowbugs. Bridge had been working on Yaz for a month now, trying to sell her on the Glowbugs, but to no avail. He would have to work twice as hard to get her to bite after this.

The next night he found even more difficult. Setting up meets had become problematic. Places he’d been cautiously welcomed before began to turn him away. He received a particularly gruff rebuff from the bouncers at Alligator Corner. Steve Three-Fingers, a bouncer he’d hooked up with some GlobalNet snuff torture rooms seemed to revel in giving Bridge the cold shoulder. Gizzard gave Bridge the run of the Glitter, but barred members of both
Magos
and
Diablos
from entering the place, and called the CLED on any who were spotted within a block of the joint. Bridge’s attempts to regroup with Kneecaps and the Aardvark fell apart when Gizzard revealed that Kneecaps was barred from entering the Glitter because of an outstanding debt.

Bridge did manage to set up a meeting with the A&R rep, Baku Baku, to go over Sid’s music. Slick as greased goose shit, Baku Baku was an Iranian-American with a bit of a god complex. Dark slicked back hair capped a swarthy face of impressive masculine beauty, with the eyes of a predatory lizard. Bridge had never found out his real name – everyone just called him Baku Baku. Bridge could never spend more than thirty minutes alone with the guy without feeling the urge to punch him directly in his pretty face. Luckily, Bridge had tossed a few successful acts his way, including the brother and sister team, the Ardents, who had recently hit the number one on the GlobalNet charts. Baku didn’t exactly owe Bridge, but he was the only A&R guy that would take Bridge’s call without the typical dick-waving, put-Bridge-in-his-place posturing.

Bridge met Baku at his penthouse office downtown, three blocks from the enormous Chronosoft LGL headquarters that had engulfed the Los Angeles downtown core. Sid had begged to come with, but Bridge knew better than to have the twitchy so-called musician in the same room with the executive in this situation. If Bridgeon. If B could get Baku through all Sid’s demo tracks, he would have held up his end of the bargain. Baku would probably be ready to kneecap Sid soon after they met in person, and if that happened before the rep had heard all the music, Bridge would owe Sid something else.

Bridge, Mu and Aristotle rode the glittering, mirrored elevator up in silence. Bridge could smell the barest hint of gin on his bodyguard, masked badly by stronger cologne than Aristotle usually wore. Bridge had to give him credit. He was becoming a functional alcoholic.

“Bridge! My nizzle!” Baku shouted as the elevator doors slid open. The Persian stood with his arms wide, his silken shirt open to the sternum, glittering gold necklaces twinkling from his smooth, olive chest. “Want some blow?”

Bridge demurred. Baku liked the old stuff, the finest grade cocaine, bereft of nano additives, the kind of blow that still rotted sinus cavities and made hearts explode. Of course, Baku had an ace in the hole, an army of tissue-repairing nanobots that coursed through his veins, undoing any damage he’d done to his body in twenty-four hours. The treatments were expensive as hell. Bridge’s commission for finding a nanodoc willing to provide the technological marvels without paperwork on speed dial had been quite generous. “I’m good, Baku Baku.”

“Come on, Bridge, we’re friends here. It’s Baku! Sit. Let’s dialog!” The man’s voice boomed through the cavernous penthouse. He was a loud talker, his voice always on the edge of shouting, but he seemed unaware of how loudly he spoke. Bridge sank into the sumptuous couch, the cushions redolent with the smoke from a water pipe. The air around the couch had a slight haze. The party had started in Baku Baku’s world. Bridge noticed a trio of naked hotties hanging out around the bar.

“How’s business, Baku?”

“Business is business, brother. Those Ardents, they been kicking it to the limits. You really found a gem there. What you got for me today, homes?”

Bridge pulled Sid’s demo card and placed it gingerly on the translucent, circular coffee table in front of him. The circuitry in the table connected flawlessly with the card’s internal interface, lines of power glowing through the card and into the table. Bridge motioned to Baku for permission to begin playing the demo. The rep gave his permission with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“What am I listening to?”

“Sid Tobin.”

“Big band hop?” Baku asked as the first song started with a crescendo of blaring trombones and DJ record scratches, followed by Sid’s whiny voice flowing over horrible rhymes. “Jesus, man, why you bringing me this shit? Turn it off.”

“Hold up, Baku. I got a favor to ask. I need you to hear all these songs. All of them. There’s like 30 of them.”

“I got to listen to 30 of these?”

“No, it gets worse. Wait ‘til you get to the industrial jangly pop.” Baku made a gas face.

“You want me to listen to all of this shit? That’s going to cost you. Who the fuck is this idiot, you’re mother’s retarded cousin?”

“Not quite, though not far off. We ain’t related, but he did me a huge solid and you are what he asked for. You don’t have to listen to every second of every song. Shit, maybe there’s something in here worth listening to, I don’t know. I couldn’t make it through myself.”

Baku rubbed his smooth chin. “You’re going to owe me,” he said. Bridge nodded. “This got something to do with that beef going down in the Families?”

Bridge raised a surprised eyebrow. “You know about that?”

Baku nodded. “Yah. I know lots of shit, man. Let’s listen to this warbling, then we’ll talk about what you can do for me.”

Listening to all the songs took what seemed like an age, each genre switch accompanied by rueful laughter and wincing. To his credit, Baku did listen to three of the songs from start to finish, expressing interest in meeting Sid. “I don’t recommend it,” Bridge replied when asked. “He’s about as big of a pain in the ass as you can imagine.”

“I’ll meet anybody that’s got some talent, and he’s got some talent,” Baku said. “There might even be a hit in there if we polish and package him right. And if we don’t, it won’t be the first time I stuff artist in box and mail him to Botswana.” Baku’s explosive laughter pervaded the room, but despite the humor, Bridge knew Baku wasn’t kidding. Everyone knew about “the packaging.”

With the songs finally finished, Baku stood and walked to the bar, slapping one of the naked women on the ass playfully as he filled up a glass with a greenish liquid that Bridge guessed was real absinthe. “I’ll call you next week to set up a meet with this kid,” the Persian began. “But now you gotta do something for me.”

“I am your servant,” Bridge replied with a smarmy smile.

“Somebody wants to see you. They’re waiting in a car downstairs for you.”

A cold ball of apprehension slammed into Bridge’s stomach. “A car? Am I taking a trip?”

Baku shook his head. “Not that kind of car, Bridge. They called me right after you did, brau. All they want is to talk.”

“Who is it?”

“Go on downstairs and you’ll see. Don’t give them any shit and we’ll be square.”

Bridge’s eyes narrowed into slits. “They must have some serious juice to get you to let a favoto let ar like this call us square. Should I be looking for the parachute exit?”

Baku’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost a caring whisper. “I really wish you wouldn’t. It’s no big deal, brau. Just a talk.”

Bridge nodded, his course set. He didn’t like being herded, and he liked the idea that his movements were being tracked so closely at a time when the streets were exploding even less. But he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He motioned to his bodyguards and said his goodbyes to the music executive. The ride down seemed all too short, and sweat broke out under his armpits.

“Who do we know with the juice that could pull that kind of favor?”

“A veritable ocean of potential enemies,” Aristotle replied.

“Yeah, true. But who would?” Neither Aristotle nor Mu had any idea.

The doorman ushered Bridge from the building with a sarcastic good night, a knowing smile plastering his face. The car waiting for him was a stretch limo, its back door flanked by two nano-juiced bodyguards in black suits, white shirts and black ties. Each guard wore sunglasses, but Bridge could tell they didn’t need them. Their arms were cybernetic, which led him to believe that their eyes were cybernetic as well. The shades might otherwise contain HUDs that carried the picture of their target, but they were likely there for show as the eyes would have all the HUD’s the two would need. They completed the illusion with one ear piece with a curly wire leading down their neck into their jacket, but like the glasses, those were merely for show. These were local Secret Service types, so the limo’s passenger would be government. Bridge’s mood worsened as he realized which member of government would likely be in the back of the car.

The back door opened and the Secret Service guards indicated that Bridge should get in. The passenger leaned forward to greet Bridge.

“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bridge,” Mayor Arturo Soto said. “Would you care to join me for a leisurely ride?”

Bridge was caught. He could find no excuse to get out of this very awkward conversation. His fear evaporated as his mind tumbled through the possibilities. Had Soto wanted Bridge arrested, a simple phone call would have done the job. “Bridge, you cannot get in the car with him,” Aristotle hissed.

“Why not? This is the fucking mayor, brother. He’s not going to hurt me.”

“You sure about that?”

“No, but think about it. He wants me dead, then he doesn’t put himself anywhere near the crime. He hires a motherfucker with a sniper rifle sniper who puts a slug in my dome before I even hear the shot. Or he calls CLED and gets me arrested on some bullshit charge and tossed in the deepest hole he can find. He doesn’t offer me a ride in his limo.”

“I would be more amenable if we could accompany you,” the bodyguard said.

“I’m sure you would,” Soto interrupted. “But this is a private conversation. Don’t worry, mother, I’ll bring him back safe and unharmed.” The smile on the politician’s face oozed charm.

“I’ll be fine,” Bridge said. “I’ll call you with a meeting place when we’re done.” Bridge tossed Mu a hand gesture, an infinitesimal signal in the burgeoning cant the technomancers were developing, that told the wizard to back off both physically and electronically. Mu could have planted a nanobot spell that relayed the entire conversation to anyone he desired, recorded the whole thing and spit it out in a viral blast to anyone with a GlobalNet connection, which was, of course, everyone. Bridge didn’t care much for blackmail and Soto was entirely too slick for it to have been effective anyway. Had Bridge tried such an operation, he would move himself from the mayor’s dislike list to his hit list, a movement that gained Bridge nothing but more enemies.

Bridge slid into the limo’s middle seat gracefully, with casual indifference to the opulence paid for with taxpayer dollars. Had Bridge actually been a taxpayer, he might even have felt a tinge of outrage at the luxury. “Nice ride,
ese
,” Bridge quipped, intentionally using the Spanish phrase to get the mayor’s goat. He leaned over and opened the mini bar. “You got any tequila?”

If Bridge’s attempts to rankle the politician were successful, he gave no indication at all. Soto sat back with smug indolence, his arm stretching comfortably across the back seat. “I hear that you are partially to thank for my election victory,” Soto began. “I never got a chance to offer my regards.” His eyes narrowed into the stare of a predator. The smartass comeback Bridge had readied stuck in his throat. “Of course, I hear that you are also to thank for the pall of illegitimacy hanging over that victory.” The tone was set. This was no more a friendly visit than it was a prelude to an attack. Bridge would have to tread carefully.

“You’re welcome, your honor… your imminence… what is the proper honorific? I always get confused.”