Put The Sepia On (2 page)

Chapter 2: But The Dead Are Happier Dead

I hit the streets like they owe me money. Maybe they do; I’ve certainly put in some hours keepin’ em clean.
In the same way that a single toilet’s flush keeps a sewer clean.

It’s raining, because of course it’s raining. Streets get slick when it rains, giving me one more way to slip up. I think this one puts me in the triple digits, easy. But I took the job, and I know a couple things. I know a few places to ask, and ways to phrase the question. Just might make my knuckles sore if I have to ask too many times.

First place I stop is the smart place to stop; one of the only bars that really sees Dogs in with the drunks. Mostly the Dogs keep to their own places, with higher ceilings and higher proofs, but every now and then they wander out to one of these places to make shady deals with people who can get things they can’t, or maybe just to appreciate some women who don’t stand eight feet tall. In fact, the women in these bars always seem even shorter, because they spend so much time bent over the counter, or on their knees.

Places like this have a distinct
look, smell, and sound that can be summed up in one word: brown. And not a classy oak brown, either, but a scummy, low-rent brown that sticks to your shoe and rifles through your wallet when you’re asleep. It almost makes you gag, but your instincts are sharp enough to know not to open your mouth, because you don’t want that one word that says it all rolling around on your tongue. Oh, and there’s a pool table, too. The felt is brown too, but it wasn’t always. 

This particul
ar establishment, they know me. That makes it easier to know who to talk to, but harder to get him to talk. Lucky for me, there’s a Dog I know here. Most of the Dogs don’t like me, since most of my work has me yankin’ their chains, but he’s ok. I helped him out of a bind with the Corporation a few years back, and he tells me things I need to know in exchange for more whiskey than anybody under six feet tall oughtta drink. Lucky for him, he stands about 9’6. He doesn’t see me yet, so I make for the bar first.

“What’ll it be, pal?”
the bartender asks me without looking at me. Not because he’s rude, but because he’s blind. He wasn’t last time I came in, though. His glasses are brown.

“Whiskey. Leave the bottle.” I drop a big enough chunk of change on the counter. It gets wet. “And a glass of scotch.”

He brings me what I ask for, and I take it to my Dog’s table. As Dogs go, he doesn’t look too bad. No real severe mutations or extra body parts, although one of his eyes has a little hair growing out the left side of it. But just a tuft. He’s got that same yellowish, leathery skin they all have, but that just comes with the territory. I set the bottle on the table and sit down, sipping my Scotch.

“Must be a big favor,” he says, biting the top off the bottle, glass and all.
I consider telling him his mouth is bleeding, but it’s not like that’s a foreign flavor for Dogs. Hell, he might have done it on purpose just for seasoning.

“Don’t know
yet. Might be nothing at all. I’m looking for a guy.”

He snorts down about a fifth of the bottle. “So post a personal.” He thinks he’s funny.

“I’m looking for a guy who’d been talking to Dogs,” I say, and he points at me, because, again, he thinks he’s funny. “Guy by the name of Robert.” His face tells me he knows the name. He takes a hard look at the bottle I bought him before he decides if his voice will corroborate.

“That right?”

I nod. “That’s right. And I’m going to find him.”

“Sure it’s worth it?” he asks, swilling the bottle past the halfway point now.
It only improves his breath.

“Money’s right,” I tell him, because I hadn’t lied in a few minutes and was starting to get rusty.

“He was at Lime’s, two, maybe three days ago.” It’s all he says and it’s all I need, and I really, really didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to say it, either, and makes that point by choking down the rest of the bottle in one go and getting up to leave. No point trying to stop him. I sit alone, finish my scotch, and try to talk myself into going back to my office and giving that sweet little deer or vicious little wolf her money back. Unfortunately for me, I’m too smart to fall for my tricks.

I head to Lime’s, and try to reason with me. It’s just a bar. Sure, it’s a bar I have some history with, but it’s JUST a bar. A Dog bar, yes, but still… it’s a bar. I’m good at bars. I know where the
exits are, and I like whiskey.

By the time I get there, I almost believe myself. It’s a nice joint, by Dog standards, meaning mostly that the stolen furn
iture is high-end and the bloodstains are mostly dry. Unfortunately, it’s also pretty full up on Dogs; big, hairy, brutal, violent Dogs. They’re drinking, too, so their tempers are going to be particularly charming.

On the upside, it’s not too hard to find Robert, and he’s alive. He’s the idiot non-Dog sitting alone in the corner trying to keep his hand from shaking while he sips on whatever they gave him when he stammered out “beer”.
Nobody’s hassling him, at least until I sit down beside him.

“Robert.” He starts, which is too bad, because it attracts the attention of the Dogs. Now they want to know why I’m here, but they know he’s not to be touched, so they’re not sure what to do. One lumbers into the back. Damn.

“Who… are you?” he quakes and shivers as he asks me.

“You sister sent me, Robert. Gotta admit, I’m curious why this is where I found you.” He’s looking around, nervous. He’s worried the Dogs will think I know him. That he brought me here. Or at least, that the Corporation sent me here for him. Good. I don’t want him to feel comfortable here. The less comfortable he is here, the easier it’ll be to convince him to come back.

“It’s… it’s more complicated than you think. You should go.”

“No soap. I’m here for you, Rob, and if I go you’re comin’ with me.”

“You can’t stay!” he’s sweating visibly now, and I can tell they smell it. Great.

“Sure I can; if you can choke down that rotgut, I’m sure a hard-livin’ shamus like
me can handle it.”

“Shamus?”

“Means detective.”

“You’re with the Corporation?!”

I take a sip of his drink (if you can call it that; brown would be much too nice a word) for effect before I answer. “Those are your words.”

“So you’re not?” he’s frantic now, as he’s noticed that a few of the nearby Dogs are listening.

“Those are also your words.” He’s about to lose it, when the voice I didn’t want to hear floats over my shoulder and slaps me in the face.

“Ah, my old friend. I wondered when you’d darken my doorstep and brighten my day.” I turn around and there he is, the only Dog in the country who owns a tuxedo, and you bet he’s wearing it. His hair, and there’s plenty of it, is meticulously groomed and his smile shows off his big, sharp, pearly white teeth.

I decide to lie to him, out of courtesy.
“Nice to see you, Lime. But I’m afraid we were just leaving.” I hear a couple dozen guns click around the bar. Sigh. It was a nice thought.

“You can’t leave, old boy… I haven’t given you the tou
r yet.” He’s still smiling, dammit, and now I feel guilty. Suspecting little Coral, getting all melodramatic. Probably would have kept with it, but Lime’s smile reminds me what a wolf really looks like.

Chapter 3: A Man Who Likes Talking To A Man Who Likes To Talk

I’m looking at this perfumed pit bull, and I can’t help but have a memory or three. Back when I was working for the Corporation, back when I was finding the people with pricetags, Lime was a pretty frequent feature of my evenings. He knew where people were, especially when they were in his basement, or his belly.

But I’
ll give him this: he was always a courteous cannibal (if Dogs and people are even the same species anymore; maybe he’s just a polite predator). A scavenger with pretensions (at least), or ambitions (in the middle), or a maybe a destiny far above the hand he’d been dealt… And while we worked opposite sides of the same two-faced coin, we got along pretty ok, considering. Lime, like me, knew the whole thing was one big joke. Sure, I had to put a few of his Dogs down over the years, and nobody was fonder of biting the hand that fed him (which incidentally was the same hand that signed my paychecks) than Lime, but… We’d trade laughs between shots, or shots between laughs. Looking at him now makes my arm ache, but it warms me up a little when I see he’s still favoring his left leg.

“So,” he says, still grinning, as his boys frisk me and take away my big useless gun and pocket the money Coral gave me, “how do you know our lad Robert here?” Speaking of, Robbie’s sweating buckets, which might actually work out because he’s in so far over his head he’s going to need something to bail with.

“Friend of the family,” I say.

“You don’t have a family, old friend.”

“Don’t have any friends, either,” I say. He stops smiling.

“Well that’s not nice, pal, when I’ve been so good to you over the years.” He’s not wrong; he may be a murderous man-monster, but he’s a murderous man-monster who made me a lot of money and saved my bacon a time or two… when he wasn’t too busy trying to cook it.

“Years, Lime, years. And I did ok by you, too,” and much to my surprise I’m not lying either; Lime’s still alive because of me, although I don’t think either of us are too happy about it.

“Well,” he says as that toothy
grin comes back and Robert struggles to keep down whatever it was he was drinking, “you and her. I assume she’s slinking around somewhere, ready to change the game?” Lime’s got a memory. And a couple of knife wound memos on the back of his left shoulder in case he forgets. Both came signed and delivered.

“
I haven’t seen her,” I say, and I haven’t lied to him in sentences. It’s like speaking a second language. His eyes narrow. He’s trying to decide if I’m a great liar or terrible at telling the truth. Can’t it be both?

“Me neither,” I can’t tell if he’s saying it with relief or suspicion. Can’t it be both? “Anyways, I suppose I should show you what our lad Robert’s been doing to help us out. That
is
why you’re here, isn’t it old boy?” I don’t scare easy. But that smile will haunt my dreams if I live long enough to fall asleep.

He (and five or six of his unkempt compatriots) escort us down a long hallways with nice red carpet on the floor and walls. It doesn’t do a great job hiding the bloodstains, but I only count three of them, so by Dog-side of the track standards, we’re getting a tour of a real five star joint.

At the end of the hallway there are stairs. Looks like we’re going down them. Smells like Robert doesn’t want to. Lime’s been chattering away the whole time with “old boy” this and “chum” that. He hasn’t noticed that I’m not listening because he hasn’t stopped talking. That same habit scored him the limp that slows our descent.

A
ll of a sudden we’re in a warehouse, and I don’t like what I see. Boxes and boxes of old-make weaponry, the kind they used back before the Corporation put a leash on things. Weapons that have been illegal, and unmanufactured, for decades. Weapons no man could use, physically, or would use, morally.

To my left there’s a four-foot shoulder cannon propped against a wall; the barrel is wider than most bowling balls. I know what it shoots, too. Nine pound spiked steel cannonballs that release a few thousand volts of electricity on impact. It fires seven per second, and with the right rigging, can hold about eighty.
It was designed to fight helicopters and demolish buildings, but I figure in a pinch it could probably slow a fella down in a pretty permanent way, you know, if it had to.

To my right, there’s an old-make Mech, designed for Dogs instead of Corporation trained pilots. It doesn’t handle as well as the models the Corporation uses today, but that’s ok because it’s three times the s
ize and has enough power to lift seventy-five tons… per hand.

And it goes on and on like that for a thousand feet. A whole bunch of classic (and restored) raider bikes, d
iscontinued because no human is big enough to ride them and they’re twice as fast as anything cost-effective and man-sized. Lime’s hoarded about three hundred of them. All kinds of fun explosives, and lots of big blades, spikes, and bludgeons on the ends of heavy chains that no man could lift... but a Dog with a decent workout routine can handle ‘em one handed. I’m standing in an armory.

“Robert works as a clerk for the Repossession Division,” Lime explains with a good-natured grin that’s scarier than all of the weapons in
the room, except maybe for the box of grinder-grenades (bombs that release dozens of rotating and rusty drill-bits upon detonation) sitting on a nearby shelf.

“So you’re opening a museum?” I ask because he’s waiting for me to ask something.

“No, my old friend. We are tired of being fed table scraps. We are tired of being- pardon the pun- the underdog. We are tired of the Corporation.” He was a pompous sonofabitch, but he wasn’t necessarily wrong; the Corporation had been using the Dogs as, well, dogs, for decades. First class muscle, third class citizens. But…

“There’s a lot of ground to cover between here and the capitol buildings,” I point out.
Lime shrugs, the way he might if his afternoon drink only had three ice cubes instead of four.

“Sure. And the people, they’re as oppressed as we are. They’ll fall in, marching b
ehind us, a million tallies in the profit margin becoming a million patriots. Think of it as a revolution, if you will.”

“With you sitting on top of the hill at the end, naturally.”

He nods. “Naturally.”

“Why tell me?” he might just be bragging. But he’s too smart for that. He walks up to me and pats me on the back, like we’re pals. I’ll try explaining that to the bruise his paw left; you don’t need to ache, buddy, it was a
friendly
smack.

“Because, my dear detective, I want your help.”

“Come again?”

He clasps his giant hands behind his giant suit and strides away, musing. “Is it really so hard to fathom? You hate the Corporation- so do I. Our old enmity, if you choose to see it as that, which I don’t,
for the record - more like a friendly game of one-upsmanship - but whatever it was, it hardly matters now, does it? It was all at the instruction of the Corporation, no?” He turns back and grins at us. “It’s not so bizarre; and you wouldn’t be the only man on the winning team, of course. After all, Robbie here sees it our way, don’t you Robbie?”

Robert’s too scared to speak, but he nods, and it looks like he means it. The Dogs are selling freedom, and t
hat sounds ok as long as you don’t mind the tax. Being a former government employee, though, I hate me some taxes.

“No soap, Lime. I don’t like the Corporation, sure, but at least I know how they operate. I can live in their world
, and be left more or less alone. Yours? You’d have a knife in my back before the dust settled.”

Lime shrugs amiably.”Technically, I could
quite easily put one in you now. There’s no need for this posturing, my old friend; once the dust settles there’d be no reason for us to be at each other’s throats ever again. I’ll be in charge, you’ll be rich, and… well, does there really need to be anything beyond that?”

I say nothing, but I must be thinking it pretty loud because he gets that gleam in his eyes again and…

“Ah, her?” He pauses for effect, or maybe just to try and read my face. I’m guessing its light enough reading - like an obituary. He waves one of his big mitts, dismissing the issue. “Well, you can have her. Total clemency, for both of you. Free reign in a brave new world.” When I don’t say anything to that, he continues, “Don’t be so skeptical; I’m greedy, not petty, you know.” Robert almost works up the sack to ask me who the “she” is. Almost.

I take a long look at Lime before I speak. I think he’s on the level with this; he’s played dirty before, but never cheap. And using her to get to me would be beneath him, although it would probably have worked if it weren’t, once upon a time. But times change, and while I can still remember how she looks and smells and sounds and tastes, I also remember how she plays. Put it this way; if I’m on the level, Lime’s under the table, and she’s poking around the basement. No sale.

“Lime, I’m not your friend, and I’m not here for your revolution, or your money, or her. I’m here because somebody paid me a lot of money to take Robert here home and teach him some manners.”              

Lime’s smile disappears. He snaps his fingers, and one of his flunkies hands him my cash. “This money? This is nothing. Today, I could give you a hundred times this. Tomorrow, a million.”

“Tomorrow?” I ask before my brain catches up with my mouth. Lime just nods. “Then what’s the harm letting me take Robert here?” Lime laughs a laugh like expensive wine made from sour grapes.

“No harm, really. You won’t run to the Corporation- your pride won’t let you- and even if you did, it’s much too late for them to stop us… but on the other hand, you could make things a little tougher for us. We’d rather take them by surprise, you unders
tand; no sense fighting a war when you can win an ambush. It’s just common sense.” His men heft their guns. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you one last time which side you’d like to be on, Detective.”

“If it’s all so inevitable, Lime, why would you even need me?” I see something now I never thought I’d see. I’ve hurt his feelings.

“You’re my friend,” he says simply, “and I’d like you to be a part of this. Sure, we’ve had our scraps- but that was business. You’re a man of the world, Detective, too smart to take your medicine, too moral to work for the Corporation, too proud to become a criminal… I don’t think I know anyone I respect quite so much, except perhaps for
her…
but then, I actually do hate her, so yes, yes now that I work it all out aloud, I suppose you are my best friend in this whole backwards world.” He’s lonely, and I’d be lying if I tried to convince myself that none of what he said was mutual; it’s why I never offed him back in my Corporation days. We’re two guys too smart to play by the rules, and too dumb to walk away from the game. There’s some camaraderie in that, if not the friendship Lime is shilling.  

It’s a rare vulnerable moment for him, and I can see it makes his boys uncomfortable. A smarter detective might be able to come up with a way to use that. But a smarter detective wouldn’t have been here to hear that little revelation in the first place.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot we’re best pals… must be the guns your goons have at my back.” Buying time, and not much of it.

“Ah, yes, sorry about that. Precautions, you know. I’m sentimental enough to like you, my friend, but I’m not dumb enough to trust you. Not without your word, anyways.”

I stifle a chuckle. “You think it’s worth anything?” 

He takes a deep breath before replying. “Yes, as a matter
of fact I do. Perhaps I’m too quixotic. Nonetheless, give it, and I’ll let you walk out of here alive and if you betray me… well, I won’t have too many people to blame for that, now will I?”

I’m a
helluva liar, but… I can’t do it. My life’s on the line and I can’t lie to him. Not about this. I hate the fucker, but he’s been straight with me, and I guess if nothing else I owe him the same damned courtesy.

“Go to H
ell, Lime.” He closes his eyes, accepts the pain, and bows his head slowly. Then he turns away. The guns behind me are ready, but they’re not aimed. The gunmen are thinking about Lime’s speech, not the allegedly unarmed gumshoe he’s about to tell them to execute.

I drop my left shoulder, and that little compartment I had instal
led after Lime shot me back between laughs springs open. My little useful gun slides down my sleeve and into my hand. I’ve got it up, and aimed, fast enough to catch the Dogs off guard. Lime looks more amused than afraid. Robert looks much more afraid than amused.

“Surely, Detective old boy,” Lime starts, “surely you don’t think you can blast through all of us with just that.” I look down the barrel at him.

“Not us. Just you. But don’t worry, Lime, it’s a revolution; it’s too late to stop it, remember? It’ll happen just fine without you. And if I die with you, it’ll be an ambush instead of a war anyways, right? If you’re the patriot you claim to be, this is a no-brainer.”

Things are real quiet and real tense for almost a minute, except for Robert’s frightened whimpering. The Dogs don’t know what to do. Lime’s smiling. My arm’s getting tired, on account of having a hollowed-out hiding place where half my bicep is supposed to be. Lime walks right up to me, and I have to raise the gun slightly to keep it aimed at his head. He tucks the money he took from me
gently into my coat. As he does it, I catch a whiff of his breath. I bet he’s the only Dog in the world who brushes his teeth.