Kop (27 page)

O
CTOBER 3, 2762–
O
CTOBER 7, 2762

I
LEANED
over the rust-eaten rail of Koba’s tallest bridge. My eyes strained to see through the dead of night to the black water below. I pulled one very expensive soda bottle from its evidence bag and held it tight as I looked down into the blackness, my gut heavy with the realization that I was a criminal.

I wondered how far I was willing to go for Paul and his plans. He wanted to change Lagarto, and he was willing to do anything to achieve it, including getting in bed with Ram Bandur. Paul had made his intentions clear to me after we’d bought off the deputy coroner. He was going to take over KOP, and he wanted my help. He was going to need somebody to help with the dirty work.

Were we really that bad off that saving this planet required such desperate measures? I scanned the riverbanks, taking in the city lights. I could see the capitol building with its well-lit marble façade and golden dome. It was there, inside that building that they sold us out, making the decision to sell off the Orbital and the mining rights, dooming this planet to economic isolation.
Fuck the rich politicians and their picture-perfect lives.

I could smell the mold that was growing thick on the bridge rails. Try as you might, you couldn’t ever get away from that smell.
Fuck this lizard-infested jungle planet.

I looked over at Tenttown. Its tents looked like lanterns
when they were lit up at night. I couldn’t believe I used to live in one of those things. My skin reflexively itched as I remembered how the mosquitoes would swarm through holes you could never seem to find.
Fuck that fucking place.

I watched the tangle of Floodbank lights shimmering on the river, each one bobbing independently of the others. There was a carnival going in the Old Town Square. A Ferris wheel was spinning slowly in front of the cathedral’s steeples. The city would’ve looked beautiful if I didn’t know better.
Fuck the drunks that piss and vomit all over the street. Screw the O-heads hiding in their cardboard boxes. To hell with the unemployed, the lazy fucks. Fuck the wife beaters and the wives who keep going back for more. Fuck the pimps and whores, and the kiddie rapers. Fuck those tech-hoarding offworlders. Double-fuck Nguyen and her bug-zapper skin. Fuck everyone!

If any of them got in our way, they’d deserve what they got.

I held the soda bottle up to the beam of a street lamp, the glass reflecting back sharp points of light. I heaved the fucking thing into the darkness.

When I made it back to the stakeout pad, Paul had holo-mugs of Yashin’s dealers lined up against the wall. We went through them together, methodically evaluating their records. We discarded the holo-heads one by one, tossing them into a pile like stones until there was only one left: drug dealer and stick-up artist Elvin Abramson. His history of armed robbery would go well with the fact that as one of Yashin’s dealers, Abramson would know about the basement stash. The perfect fall guy for our first frame job.

We concocted a plausible line for lead-dick Yuan Chen. We told him about an imaginary snitch who worked for Yashin. We said that we leaned on him hard, made him spill everything he knew. According to our fake snitch, Elvin Abramson
dropped by and started acting like he was the new O supplier. When our pseudo-snitch asked him where he came up with an O supply, Elvin responded with a sham story about some cousin who put him in touch with a high-grade but low-cost supplier. Elvin even tossed our snitch a quarter-kilo free sample.

The implication was clear. Elvin Abramson killed the Yashins, took the dope, and was now trying to take over the business. Yuan Chen fell for our ruse and elevated Elvin Abramson to suspect number one.

Chen set up a raid on Elvin’s place. He wanted to run it by the book, but I talked him out of it when I laid on the let-me-take-this-one routine. “He may be the guy who killed my girlfriend’s parents,” I said. Chen was thinking, sure, why not? Let hothead Mozambe go in and knock him around a little, see if he can get anything out of him.

Paul and I smashed through the front. We charged the bed, our weapons drawn. Elvin Abramson and his lover rolled out from under the sheets and fell to the floor. It was early morning—always the best time to make arrests. The two of them froze, lase-pistols in their faces. We cuffed Elvin naked.

The lover was on his knees, begging. “Please, I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know him. We just met last night. I have a wife and kids at home….”

I said, “Get dressed and get out.”

Paul shoved the warrant in Elvin’s face. “Can you read this? It says you’re fucked.”

The apartment was a one-room. I scanned for possible stash locations. Kitchenette cabinets held dishes only. Dust bunnies under the bed. I went into the closet. Glitzy shirts hung on hangers, and hats hung on the back of the door—all fedoras and panamas. I shoved the clothes aside, pulled out a trunk. “Where’s the key?”

Elvin said, “In my pants.”

I snatched up a pair of white pants draped over a chair and retrieved the key. I opened the trunk—brown sugar, spoons, scale, plastic bags, and rubber bands. I cinched up my trouser leg, plastic bag tied to my calf.

Elvin saw me. “HEY! What the fuck are you doing?”

Paul stomped on his foot and shushed.

I untied the bag from my calf and emptied it into the trunk, adding one bloodied lase-blade to the contents.

I closed the trunk, closing the case along with it. Natasha was safe. It wasn’t her fault that she did what she did. The fault was all mine. To set things right for her, I had to frame a man innocent of the crime. The price was cheap. What was the conscience of a flatfoot like me worth?

“It’s over,” I said. “Detective Chen probably called to tell you we got the guy.”

Natasha’s eyes were staring off into nothingness. I leaned back in my seat, the back of the iron bench chilling my skin. I looked at the lilies. There were all kinds, orange, pink, purple. It had taken me a while to find her. She’d told me to meet her here at the Koba Gardens. I’d wandered around for a good ten minutes before I thought to ask somebody where the lilies were.

Natasha’s voice was barely a whisper. “How did he end up with the blade?”

I knew what she meant. It was in her mother’s back that last time she saw it. “Paul and I had to plant it on him,” I admitted. “But we
know
he did it. This wasn’t the first time he’s killed somebody.” That was a total lie. I didn’t want Natasha to feel guilty about somebody else getting punished for her crime. She’d have enough guilt to deal with. This way she could tell herself that Abramson deserved his fate.

“He’s killed other people?”

“Yes. Two that we know of, but his lawyer got him off both times.”

She stayed silent for a few minutes. I sat quietly, wondering what she was thinking.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

“We don’t have to do anything. It’s over.”

“No. So what do
we
do now?”

“You mean us?”

She nodded.

I knew what a regular guy would think. He’d think she’s a fucking psycho. Did you see what she did to her parents? But I wasn’t a regular guy. I rubbed at the scars on my wrists. I understood what she did. I
understood
.

I said, “I’m sorry I closed the door on you.”

She shrugged. “I should’ve told you.”

“It’s none of my business what you did before we met.”

She looked into my eyes. “You mean that?”

“I do,” I said.

“So you think it’s possible to have a fresh start in life?”

I could see the hope in her eyes. I said, “I do.”

“Do you think we could have a fresh start? You and me?”

I wanted to ask her for forgiveness. I wanted her to forgive me for spying on her. I wanted her to forgive me for failing her when she needed me most. But I couldn’t ask. Not without her learning that I knew the truth about her father, about how her parents died. Maybe a fresh start was the best I could do. It wouldn’t be easy to put all this behind. But I didn’t want easy. I wanted
her
. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

I said, “I do.”

She squeezed me in her arms. I squeezed her back. I kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Natasha.”

I felt her tense in my arms.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me. What’s wrong?”

She kept her face buried in my chest. “You said my name. I don’t like my name. I never liked it.”

“What’s wrong with Natasha?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t like it. I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer.

Her father used to call her Natasha. I pictured him on top of her, saying her name, whispering it in her ear…

I shivered. I could feel my face flushing with anger. Now I hated the name, too.

I thought about how she’d been Natasha for her whole life. A life she hated. A life she desperately wanted to leave behind. I thought about her father’s final word, a second before the lase-blade stabbed down into his chest. I wondered if the memory of that moment would come back to her every time somebody said her name.

“Change it,” I said.

“Change what?”

“Change your name.”

I could feel her head shaking left and right against my chest. “I can’t do that. People would think I’m strange.”

I didn’t think there was anything strange about it. “Who cares what they think? You can pick whatever name you want. That’s what fresh starts are all about.”

She squeezed me tighter. “Maybe you’re right.”

Minutes passed, and we stayed in that position, holding each other.

She asked, “Remember how I had a brother who died before I was born?”

“Of course I do.”

“Remember how my parents gave me his name as my middle name?”

“You want to be called Nikita? That was you’re brother’s name, right?”

“How about just Niki?”

J
UNE 31, 2787

M
IDNIGHT
had passed. The men had gambled their last pesos and drunk their last cups of shine. The women’s cliques were long since gabbed out and had moved inside. Lights were flicking out from behind taped-over windows.

Maggie and I sat on Pedro’s stoop. She knew the whole story. How Paul approached Ram Bandur using Yashin’s opium as a good-faith offering. How Bandur took Paul’s deal and how they helped each other take over the city. She knew how Paul used Yashin’s money as a bribe fund and that the first person he put on the payroll was Deputy Coroner Abdul Salaam, who became his
numero uno
evidence tamperer and star witness.

She had listened to how Paul and I tore through the city. How criminals had two choices: work for Bandur, or go to jail. Paul ran the evidence room and the Office of the Coroner. He could trump up anything he wanted. He arrested his way to the top.

I’d told her how Paul seized control of KOP with his
plata o plomo
policy. The choice was yours: silver or lead. Paul dished Bandur money to anybody who would take it, and for those who didn’t, I dished out the lead. I was the enforcer in a skull-cracking, reputation-smearing rampage through KOP. I learned how to turn my temper on in an instant. I wreaked vengeance on all who opposed Paul. Everybody feared me.

She’d learned how Paul picked tourist neighborhoods that Bandur had to keep crime free. In exchange, Bandur was
permitted to war with his enemies, immune to prosecution. Paul molded the city to his vision of what was best for Lagarto. So what if he got rich along the way? You couldn’t expect him to do a job without getting paid. What did it matter that crime never dropped? Who cared that Paul’s attempt to bring more tourists to Lagarto only resulted in a boom of offworld-operated resorts that kept all the big money in offworld hands? At least he did
something
.

I’d unloaded twenty-five years of sin on Maggie, only holding one thing back: that Niki murdered her parents. Niki still hadn’t even admitted it to me. Some secrets are best left buried. I let Maggie think our patsy really did it. The poor bastard didn’t even survive the first week of his incarceration before he was tortured to death by some inmates who were trying to make him spill where he’d hidden Yashin’s stash.

We sat quiet for a while. Maggie looked at me, her features hard to read in the dark. She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned in close. My skin tingled; my heart raced. She kissed my cheek. I turned to her lips, but they were already gone. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I held back as my brain struggled to interpret her gesture. I wanted to believe she was attracted to me, but…

Could be she was just delirious—she hadn’t slept for two days. Could be she just felt sorry for me. Could be she was thanking me for making her feel less guilty about Pedro’s death by dwarfing her error with the quarter-century of broken dreams, broken lives, and broken skulls I’d left behind. Then again, it could be she wanted me to kiss her. I was on the verge…