Body mortgage, p.2
Body Mortgage, page 2
“If you don’t give me some money,” Billy told him, “I’m going to smack you in the head and take it.” He lifted the gun threateningly, but Blake jumped forward, grabbing Billy’s gun arm and kicking sharply into his kneecap. Billy screamed as his pistol blew a slug into the tunnel wall, deafening all three men. As Billy fell, Blake knocked the gun away and jumped in with a knee on his solar plexus and the tip of his stiletto tucked under Billy’s chin. From its point of contact, Blake’s knife drew one small drop of blood.
“Now I want you to come round to my office tomorrow, Billy. We’re going out for a drink, and you’re going to tell me why business is so bad you got to pull this kind of crap.” Blake could tell by his breath Billy had been drinking quite a bit already.
“I say we shoot him right now.” Scott stood with the recovered pistol clutched in both hands.
Blake looked at him, then looked back down. “And I’ll explain to you how I took a nitwit like this for a client,” he said.
Billy grinned nervously as the detective got off him. He wiped the blood from beneath his chin as Blake took the gun from Scott. Blake tossed the pistol back to Billy. Scott looked dumbfounded.
“Are you crazy?” the blond man asked. “What’s to stop him from doing it again?”
“If he does, he knows I won’t buy tomorrow,” Blake said.
Scott noticed Billy hobbling off into his tunnel. “What?” he said in surprise.
“No more noise,” Blake said, leading the way on again through the tunnel.
They walked a long time through the alternating light and dark, avoiding the large pools of water underfoot, and watching for figures in the side tunnels. They stopped silent when Blake heard noises, which he usually decided were the scrabbling of rats.
When it finally came, the change of smells gave great refreshment: Fresh air blew in their faces stripping away the wet cardboard aroma of the tunnel. The darkness ended finally, opening into a large abandoned pit meant someday to be a crosstown subway station. They climbed up the steep road that the heavy equipment operators had built. No trucks had driven it in some time.
The Crosstown was a study in the Chicago style of public works. The plan was to provide good transportation from the Northwest to the Southwest sides of the city, with easy connections between Midway and O’Hare Airports. A good idea. However, subway construction had halted two years earlier, tangled in legal right‑of‑way and funding problems. And the only part of the underground tube that had been started was the least important part—the spur to connect the main part of the Crosstown with the center of town, hooking under Blake’s building through to the fashionable Near North Side.
In building the spur, the city had found it necessary to condemn and knock down a whole section of slums—which is why, Blake thought, this spur had came first. The slums were an embarrassment to the city. As the Near North’s popularity spread to neighborhoods further west, the slums stood as a fatal barrier to rising property values. Too many poor people in one spot. Too much crime.
The city had not found it necessary to knock down the modern building that housed Blake’s office, however. They had managed their construction past it, though it was as close as many of the slums they had knocked down.
At the top of the incline, Blake unlocked the fence gate leading to the street.
“How did you get that key?” Scott asked him.
“I didn’t,” Blake answered. “I cut off the construction company’s lock and replaced it with my own.”
Scott laughed appreciatively as Blake closed the gate behind them and made it secure again. He looked around, following the detective. “I think I know where we are,” he said.
“Good for you,” Blake replied. He led the way up the block to a small coffee shop.
“What’s this? Why are we stopping here?” Scott asked.
Through the large plate windows Blake glanced over the five booths and the two small round tables inside. Customers hunched over on the stools at the counter like people doomed to a life of gruel. One of the customers was a man he wanted to see. Beyond him, the cook flipped eggs at the grill.
“Business,” Blake said. He pulled the door open and pointed Scott back to the sixth booth, out of sight in the corner. Then he sat on an empty stool next to a gray‑headed man reading a newspaper.
“Know anything about a sabotage last night? It was at a waste reclamation plant, up in Lincolnwood,” Blake said, looking straight forward.
“I know enough to wonder what the hell you’re doing on the street,” the man said quietly.
“What does that mean?” Blake said.
“Stay seated and don’t look at me,” the informer told him. “Don’t try to contact me. I don’t want to get dragged down with you.” He got up, turning away from Blake as he rose, and left the shop.
What the hell? Blake wondered.
The cook set a plate of eggs on the counter. “Where’s Bowens?” he asked.
“He left.”
“Where? This is his breakfast. Where’d he go?”
“Didn’t say,” Blake said.
“Shit,” the counterman replied. “You hungry?”
“No.” Blake looked at a headline on the newspaper Bowens left behind: “Plans for Apocalypse Eve Blocked by Council.” Blake had heard this on the radio. The television preacher Reverend John Lightbearer had convinced some huge faction of the population that not only was the Apocalypse coming, but that it would arrive this coming January 25th, one month after Christmas. Seven years ago when he had announced the date, it had probably seemed like a good strategy. The Reverend Lightbearer served up an impressive array of portents and predictions based on biblical passages, and his popularity had soared. But what would he do after the date passed?
That question did not appear to trouble the Reverend. He was planning huge outdoor prayer services in cities across the nation for the coming January 24th, “Apocalypse Eve.” (That he would choose to plan anything outdoors on a January 24th in Chicago demonstrated his fragile hold on reality). But the Chicago City Council did not look favorably on his request to use Grant Park. Belief in the coming Apocalypse had affected more than just devote Christians. Fringe groups had already begun to create public disturbances, and many feared trouble if such an event were allowed to take place.
Blake flipped the paper over. “Police Investigate Bank Bombing,” the front-page headline read. “Seven Killed at First National.” A large color photograph showed bodies strewn in the rubble. He got up, signaled Scott, and walked outside. The blond man joined him.
“Let’s go.” Blake led the way down the street, heading back southeast.
“You get what you wanted?”
“No,” the detective told him. Blake wished the informant had stuck around. Since he was delayed in getting up to Dwight’s plant, he’d hoped to go with a lead already in hand. Instead he got a warning that made no sense.
“We need to pick up my equipment,” Scott said. “You told me we were going to somebody named Fishman. Is he going to help us with that?”
“No,” Blake said. What was it about Scott? He was good‑looking, obviously intelligent. Why did Blake’s mind’s eye insist on seeing him as a high-school nerd?
“I’ve got other commitments,” he told Scott. “You’ll have to sit safe at Fishman’s for a while.” The scientist grunted his irritation.
“What does your machine do, anyway?” Blake asked.
“It’s an elemental separator.”
“A what?”
“An elemental separator.”
Blake stared at him.
“It’s a simple concept,” Scott said impatiently. “Every compound is made up of elements with specific atomic weights and charges. Each compound, at the molecular level, has a weight and charge determined by its atomic makeup. With a machine programmed to attract molecules of one specific weight and charge while repelling all others, one can extract pure substances from adulterated ones.”
“And it works?”
“It will when it finish it. When will I get my equipment?”
“When I’m done with my other business, we’ll see about picking up your machine.”
“I’ve got to have it right away, Mr. Blake. There are adjustments to make.”
“Listen, Scott,” Blake said, pushing his client out of sight into an alley. “Deep down inside,” he patted his chest for emphasis, “I feel like a jackass for having anything to do with you.” Scott tried to protest, but the detective raised his left index finger for silence and cupped his right hand gently over the man’s mouth.
“Starting Monday, Mr. Scott, you will be an outlaw. You signed the paper. The bank has the right to repossess your ass. If I were a right‑minded individual, I’d turn you in, collect the reward, and take my secretary out to a well‑deserved dinner.” Blake released Scott’s mouth and wiped his hand on Scott’s shirt.
Scott smiled oddly. “I don’t think you like me, Mr. Blake.”
“A man who won’t pay his bill when his life depends on it gets a lousy credit rating in my book.”
“But why are they after me already? This is only Thursday.”
“You tell me.”
He walked back out of the alley and down the sidewalk, Scott following. After the second block, they went past a man sprawled on the ground like a fallen scarecrow, his head propped against the wall in an attitude of drunken repose. Across the street a woman sat on the curb, her purse emptied on the ground beside her, bobbing her head like a quizzical sparrow.
“What’s wrong with her?” Scott asked. The woman began howling in an incoherent guttural rasp. The man bellowed behind them and rolled off the sidewalk to kick his legs twice. The woman threw her purse.
Blake looked into her face and saw the horror of her eyes. “Jesus, God,” he said. He dug quickly into his pocket and pulled out a slender case with two capsules in it.
“Quick, take one of these,” he told Scott. Blake opened one of the capsules and sniffed a pinch of thalamin powder up each nostril. It burned like hell, but he couldn’t take any chances. He wanted it working fast. Then he put the capsule back together and swallowed the rest of it dry. Scott stood, still holding the thalamin in his hand.
“Hurry up,” Blake told him. “You want to be gibbering like these poor gooneys?”
Scott looked at it. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens to people from this stuff.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Look what happens without it.” The woman on the curb began rubbing lipstick all over her face.
“I’m a scientist,” Scott explained. “I can’t afford to lose my edge of clear thinking.” He stopped and looked around. “I don’t smell anything. It’s probably blown away.” At that moment the breeze picked up a sheet of dirty newspaper from the gutter and swirled it toward them like an airborne dervish. From around the edge of a grocery store ahead, Scott saw the faintest wisps of yellow fog curling in the air. “Oh, shit,” he said. He tried to take the antidote capsule, but in his haste, dropped it. The capsule hit the sidewalk, bounced on the edge of the curb, and arced through the sewer grating like a tiny Olympic diver.
“I dropped it,” he said.
“That was the last one,” Blake told him. He could feel the thalamin turning the air viscous, slowing him down, making him dull and woozy. That would change soon enough.
“How long can you hold your breath?” he asked Scott, grinning stupidly. Then he felt the sting of QDT on his eyes. He smelled its acrid flavor: like barbecued bug spray.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Scott said. Blake forced himself to dive hard and tackle his client before he ran away. He held him to the ground as Scott’s senses began to scramble.
QDT, originally developed by the army, had become a popular “disambulant” with police and military forces all over the world. It affected its victims like an airborne LSD—and certainly left them “disambulatory.” It knocked everyone on their collective ass.
“I may have to start playing nursemaid now,” Blake said slowly, though he suspected Scott could no longer understand, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase you.” Scott began making small noises to himself, and the detective got up. “You won’t get far now,” he said.
Blake felt the first rush of QDT fighting with the antidote in his system. All his drowsiness fled as though he’d shot a heavy dose of amphetamine. He’d have to be careful. His thoughts would come fast again, but they’d be skittish and unreliable.
He wondered who’d put QDT in the air. There hadn’t been riots, so it probably wasn’t the National Guard. The police? Fishman would know. He had to get Scott safely to Fishman’s.
Blake walked up to the grocery store. A middle‑aged man with a Manager patch on his uniform lay on his back near the door moaning, “Oh, no.” Blake leaned over him, and the man shrieked in terror.
“I know how you feel,” Blake told him. He flipped one of the shopping carts over the barriers, wheeled it back to Scott, and hoisted the wriggling man into it.
“Get to Fishman’s place,” rattled on in Blake’s mind. “Stick to original plan.” He wheeled his load swiftly away.
The detective knew why Scott had hesitated to take the thalamin. When the drug first hit the underground market a number of political dissidents had taken it too often. Excessive use of thalamin left them permanently dull‑witted. The police then found it easy to capture and lobotomize them, turning their bodies over to redemption centers and collecting the exchange for themselves. By one means or another, police never lacked for exchange organs. And thalamin was still illegal without a permit.
Blake pushed on with the cart, using alleys like cockroaches use the insides of walls, trying to stay out of sight. Being mobile and coherent in a QDT “control zone” led to questioning by the police—something Blake definitely wanted to avoid.
But there were worse problems. When the police deserted a “control zone” and the incapacitated victims were left helpless at the site, the results were sadly predictable. Up at mid‑block, five gang kids swung into the alley like jackals smelling blood.
Blake let his head bob twice as the cart with Scott swerved into the brick wall of the building to his right. Blake moaned and twisted his head as he banged the cart into the bricks like a violent spastic. The police would not be deceived by his act. One look at his eyes and they’d know. But the boys he might be able to fool.
He allowed his head to loll in their direction. The gang members all wore gas masks: customary QDT looting attire. One had a pistol stuck in his belt, one dragged a chain, and the other three carried bags for raiding the stores.
The lead boy pulled the gun from his waistband and held it high over his head. The others stopped behind him. He gestured graciously toward the two men. Scott rattled himself violently in the cart while Blake hung his head slantwise, watching the boys out of the corner of his eye.
“What have we here?” the boy with the gun exclaimed. The others laughed as he pranced up to the men. “It’s another couple of gooneys!” Through the gas mask, his voice sounded like it came from a tin can. He looked like some horrible human insect.
Gang kids had originally coined the term “gooneys.” It sounded so appropriate for the awkward victims of QDT that “gooneys” had been taken into general usage.
As the boys approached, Blake lurched sideways against the cart and lolled his head, moaning again.
“Let’s string up their balls for bow ties.” The boy with the chain leered at them. The detective picked up his head and let it roll back. They had gathered in a semicircle around him like a pack of wolves.
“Just get their wallets,” a third said. Blake saw this was one of the bag boys. He swirled further so his back rested against the cart’s handle and his arms hung forward like an ape’s.
“Before we make any decision, my friends, let’s see how much they’ll pay for our protection,” the gun boy said. He walked up to Blake and reached his arms around behind him to feel for his wallet. Blake grabbed the boy’s gun and slapped his gas mask straight up off his head. Blake’s fingers fumbled in drug‑panic, but he held on to the pistol and spun the boy around, putting a chokehold on his neck. He pressed the gun barrel to the boy’s temple and looked at the other four, who had frozen. Blake watched the chain‑carrier’s surprise turn to a challenging smirk. The kid he held whimpered, and Blake felt the warmth of blood on his trembling wrist. The gas mask had caught the kid’s nose on the way up. Blake saw from an angle the boy sported a new, red mustache and goatee.
Blake’s heart pulsed at tremendous speed as adrenalin continued to pile onto the confusion of QDT and thalamin in his system. He forced himself to speak slowly:
“I think you boys came shopping to the wrong store.” Blake’s body trembled and his hands shook continuously. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The chain boy’s smirk deepened. “Look at this guy,” he said. “He ain’t going to shoot nobody. He’s scared shitless.”
Blake felt the danger of being so misread. As a kid, he’d survived some trouble himself, and he wanted to let the boys down easily. He wished suddenly there were more QDT in the air to take out the one he held, but Scott had probably gulped the last blast concentrated enough for the job.
The first boy blew some blood out of this nose and then spat, trying hard to keep the trembling out of his voice. “Shut up, you asshole,” he said to the chain‑carrier. “He’s got a gun to my head.”
“He’s harmless as a fly.” The kid began reeling in his chain and smiling directly at Blake.
“He busted my nose!” the first one said, sounding on the verge of tears.
“You was too sloppy.” The three other boys backed off as the kid began to swing the chain over his head, quickly letting out links to increase his range. Blake kicked the first boy’s feet from under him and knelt hard on his back. With two hands he pointed the pistol at the chain‑swinger.
“Now it’s you . . .” Blake started, but the slap of the links stung his hands, and the pistol rattled onto the pavement. They dove simultaneously with the boy’s hands reaching it first. Blake pulled him up by the wrists hard, knocking him backwards off balance. As he fell, the kid jerked the pistol suddenly from Blake’s grasp, and it slapped down into his own gut at the moment it discharged. Blake snatched the gun away.
