Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) (2 page)

5

A Real Case

I was no
longer in the dog house and could now sleep in my own bed. It was nice to curl up next to a real human. This was how it went; hot and cold, just like the seasons. Even when it was freezing, you still loved life—and that was the same way I felt about her. Maybe more so. I’d just have to enjoy summer while it lasted.

“Kurt,” she whispered, before deciding to take a more aggressive tact. “Kurt!” My wallet bounced off my head and skittered behind the bed.

“
Mmmhhhhrarg
?” It wasn’t a question, just my half-asleep way of pretending that I was listening. A tennis ball glanced off my cheek, and then a giant fuzzy mass leapt on the covers, landing a crushing blow to some very valuable assets.

“Jesus, are you crying?”

“No,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “Maybe.”

“We have a job.” The pain must have short-circuited my brain, triggered a hallucination. We hadn’t had a job in, well, a week, since old Fox had become a permanent—if useless—member of the team. And before that, drought would have been too kind a term to use for our lack of work.

“That’s impossible.”

She ignored my skepticism and went on with the details. “Be at Manny’s in twenty. There’s someone that wants to talk with us.”

“Manny wants to hire us? That old bastard says he wouldn’t—”

“No, that racist ass wouldn’t give me water if I was dying in the desert. We’re meeting someone else. An acquaintance of his.”

“I’m sure this new guy’s a real winner,” I said, rolling over, only to be greeted with a mouthful of dog hair and an eyeful of bright sunlight. “What’s he want?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” she said, rising up from the ground. “I’ll see you there.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t want to be late. Bad customer service.” She gave me an affectionate—at least for her—slap on the back, and then was out the door.

“Hell of a woman, that one.”

Fox coughed and tried to hack something up on the pillows.

“You watch your mouth,” I said. “You’re still on a trial run here, man.”

6

Otto

Manny’s Hardware Store.
Hadn’t been there in years. My old man used to do odd jobs for Manny, some decades back. They could both commiserate about how all the “spics” were taking over California, ruining the landscape, taking their jobs. Never occurred to the two of them why they were poor as dirt—and had even fewer friends—was because they subsidized the local watering hole like the government subsidizes shitty corn.

There were still Confederate flags hung all over the store in every corner. You’d think that this was the deep South circa 1822, but no, it was good old 2014 in a little California shore town. The Beach Boys sure as hell never sang about chasing waves or girls in Seaside Heights.

Manny was behind the counter, and watched me as I came in. Cassie was already there, looking like she was going to kill him.

“Well, if it ain’t the Tomahawk Chucker’s fuck-toy,” Manny said, trying—and failing—to put a little bit of a Southern drawl into his California
easy does it
voice, “y’all ain’t welcome in here. Don’t need your dirty money.”

“Don’t worry, Masta,” Cassie said, tone hardened with a sarcastic, razor-sharp edge, “we don’t have nuthin’ to spend.”

“You sassing me, girl?” In his haste, Manny forgot the accent charade. He took a step from behind the counter.

A man stepped out from one of the aisles.

“Now, Manny,” he said, “I thought we agreed that you’d keep all your…
feelings
to yourself.”

“But…”

“Go in the back and do some inventory.” It was a command, of sorts, but the man’s voice had a hint of kindness, like on some level he understood that Manny couldn’t help himself. Manny, for his part, grumbled something, but retired into the stockroom.

The man turned to face us. He was dressed like a hip professor, replete with designer tweed blazer and well-maintained leather boots. Despite his appearance, it was clear that he was no scholar—his hands were broad and rough, the type used to digging dirt or wielding tools, not pencils. I just hoped that they were benevolent.

His jacket rippled a little bit when he leaned in with an outstretched hand, showing the hint of some damn big muscles.

“Otto,” he said, grasping Cassie’s hand and mine in rapid succession, “I’m sorry about that. He’s the only one my employers knew in this town—”

“No need to apologize,” Cassie said, although the way she said it screamed that she thought there was every reason to apologize. And kick Manny’s teeth straight through his wrinkled nose. “I’m used to it.”

“I find that a sad commentary on this little place,” he said, waving an arm about his head, “it seems so very quaint.”

I snorted. “Yeah, if you like hookers and white trash.”

“I suppose they do have their charms, as does everything in this life,” Otto said. “But enough about that, because I’m sure you’re wondering what job I have for you.”

“I’m wondering if it pays,” I said. Cassie shot me a look that could’ve been launched from a missile silo. I decided to let her play lead. It was her business; I guess I was just an employee.

And not a very good one.

“It pays quite well, if you can track down a certain item.” He looked back and forth between us. “A location, rather. But of course, I’ll give you something to get started. That you can keep, even if things don’t shake out in the end.”

“Oh, things will shake out. We’re good at what we do, Mr…?” Cassie said.

“Otto,” he reassured us both, “just call me plain old Otto. No need for formalities.”

The whole group seemed to relax. At least, until he pulled out a snapshot of what he was looking for.

“This,” he said, scrolling through the various pictures on his tablet’s bright screen, “is a mock-up of a 10,000 year old piece of artwork from some of the first indigenous people in North America.”

“We’re not art dealers,” Cassie said. “Or thieves.”

“I know, I know,” he said, and then turned his gaze towards me, “but, perhaps
one
of you has a unique skill set that can be of great use in acquiring this item. A certain resourcefulness.”

“Who’d you say you worked for?”

“My employer is a private man—”

“Cut the shit,” Cassie said, grabbing him by his lapels. Even though he had her beat by several weight classes, Otto’s posture stiffened. He was taking notice. “What do you want this thing for? And what’s with the Dr. Otto get-up?”

That seemed to strike a note. A bad, ugly one.

“These are my
clothes,
” he said, brushing her arms from his blazer as if shaking off a troublesome fly, “this isn’t some act.” He placed the tablet computer back into his shoulder satchel. “I thought you were the type of people who could get things done, but perhaps I can find another competent party in this cesspool of a town. A tall order.” He turned on an expensive, well-cobbled heel and headed towards the door.

“Wait,” I said. “Just answer the damn questions.”

But Otto wasn’t waiting for us. The metal door swung open, exposing the full sun above before slamming shut. We stood there in silence for a moment, until Manny came out and began making loud noises that segued into insults.

Cassie made a start towards him, but I grabbed her arm, and instead she gave him a few choice words, knocked a couple light bulbs off the shelf, and went outside.

“Now what,” I said, leaning up against the truck. “You said it, Cass. We’re bleeding money. That was a big fish.”

“Something else will come along.”

“Nothing else has.”

She fixed those eyes on me. “Something will.” And she walked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

7

Johnny Boy

A hundred bucks
doesn’t go very far when you’re buying drinks at a bar. I slammed my last few greenbacks on the beer-soaked wood and called out to Austin.

“Beer,” I said, “make it your best.”

“That’ll buy some of our best piss-water,” he said, scooping up the money and putting it in the till.

“Deal,” I said, taking the tall glass of yellow liquid and sipping it. He wasn’t joking about the piss part. I rubbed my fingers through the well-travelled nuts sitting on the bar. I wasn’t brave enough to eat any of them. Not unless I was fall-down drunk, and it didn’t look like the last of my funds was going to get me there.

“Say, Desmond,” old Johnny called from across the other side, “how’s the dog fetchin’ business going?”

I gave him the finger.

“I might have something for you,” he said, dropping his voice, coming closer, “if you want in.”

“I’m not cooking meth in some nineteen year old girl’s apartment, Johnny.” Even if that wasn’t the scheme, it was bound to be something similar. He talked this crap to everyone in the Lone Star. Austin only let him stick around because he never did any of it, and somehow he always managed to pay his tab.

Which put him in an elite, distinguished group of customers.

“Nah man, that fell through,” he said, pulling up a stool. “My girl bitched out. Said it wasn’t worth it.” He just rolled his head a little bit and smiled, rubbing his clean shaven head. “Then kicked me out.”

Johnny, he was an ugly bastard, but the chicks this guy got were something else. They could make some money—real money, not just hooking money—with looks like those, if they weren’t all dumber than a wheelbarrow of busted bricks. Instead, they wound up with Johnny, who talked his bullshit ideas and sponged them dry of whatever change they had lurking between their couch cushions.

“I’m sure that hasn’t stopped you though, Johnny boy.”

“Nah,” he admitted, “buy you a drink?”

“Now we’re talking. Austin,” I called, beckoning him over, “give me your best. Johnny’s buying.”

“Natty Ice,” Johnny said, holding up two fingers. Austin dug around in the cooler and handed us each a can. At least it was cold.

“You bought my ear,” I said. “For a couple minutes. I don’t know how much this is worth, but shoot.”

Johnny put his elbows up on the counter and laid his hands out, like he was about to diagram an elaborate plan. I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I was still thinking that I could get home, convince Cass to take this gig from Otto. Even if he was a little bit oily.

“It’s like this, Desmond,” he said, “Someone took something from me. Or they will.”

“Go to the cops,” I said, swishing the beer around in my mouth. It didn’t get better the longer I savored it. “I heard they’re good with that sort of thing.”

“Ah, see old friend—”

“I’ll let that slide.”

Johnny continued, undeterred by my insult. “It’s an, uh, delicate situation.”

“Me and Cassie are pretty busy these days.”

“Bullshit,” he said, “and I don’t want the girl on this. I want you.” He added the last bit like I lacked moral fiber, and was just the type of shady character he was looking for. I couldn’t quite deny that.

“All right, let’s say I’m curious. What do I need to do?”

He slapped me on the back and ordered another round. The way things were going, I was going to get a nice buzz for free, and never even have to hear the pitch. Pretty good deal, far as I was concerned.

Once we’d settled into our new beers, though, he got straight to it.

“I was playing cards the other night with a few fellows I know—”

“What were you playing?”

Johnny stared at me, unsure what to say. “Seven-card stud.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s a detective thing.”

“Yeah, all right, sure. Anyways, I was playing…Seven-card stud with two fellows—Jack Ramsky and Donovan Bledsoe—and I got in a little deep. A losing streak.”

“Those are the worst.” I wouldn’t know. About the only thing I did right was I never gambled.

“Yeah, and this was a real bad one. You’re lucky I can afford to get you that beer.”

“Don’t I know it.” A gentle buzz was starting to tug at the sides of my face. If I didn’t blow it, I could get a few more out of him and have a halfway decent night. That didn’t happen because of what he had to say next.

“So, I might have promised these guys a little action. From my girl. A side bet. And you see, Maggie is already pissed, catching me with another woman and all.”

“Maggie the one who threw your ass out?”

“That’s the one,” he said, “she’s a firecracker, that bitch.”

“Double dipping always ends bad.”

“I know, but this chick, she was hotter than Maggie, man. Eight minimum.”

“What’s it to you, then, if Maggie gets double-teamed by two greaseballs? You said she’s beat, anyway.”

He shot me a look. “I didn’t say she was beat. She ain’t beat.”

“All right, whatever. Why do you care about saving her?”

“Well, she don’t know about the bet, and didn’t agree to none of it. So I’m thinkin’ afterwards…”

“She goes straight to the cops and tells them all about your sorry ass turning her over to two hoods like a piece of goddamn beat-up beef. And you head up state for a nice visit.”

“A permanent visit, man,” he said. “Three strikes. And something like this, they gonna gun for it. Hard. Rape, sexual assault. Something bad.”

“And they say chivalry’s dead.”

“Screw that, man. This is self-preservation.”

“You still haven’t explained why you need me.”

He got this grin on his face which I knew meant nothing good. All it meant was that I should’ve gotten the hell out of that goddamn bar, thanking him for his barley flavored water with a middle finger.

But I never claimed to be smart. And when he said he’d give me a thousand bucks, well, that just about made my mind up right there.

“I got a plan to get rid of these two clowns,” he started, and over the course of half a beer—it wasn’t a long plan, see—he gave me the rundown. When he’d finished, I just looked at him, waiting for the rest. Nothing else was coming.

“That’s the dumbest fucking plan I’ve ever heard, Johnny.”

He didn’t say anything for about a minute, then countered. “A thousand bucks. I’ll show it to you.”

I didn’t have to think about it.

I just needed to see the cash.