Tek Net (8 page)

Circling the round stage, the Cosmos Detective Agency chief said, “This comely lad's name is Nigel Dunkirk. He—”

“Bingo,” said Gomez from the chair where he was slouching.

Bascom eyed him. “What are you trying to convey?”

“You've just confirmed—which I was already near certain of anyway—that he's the
mierda
that Corky warned me about.”

Jake was straddling a chair a few feet further back from the stage. “This Dunkirk's a hired-hand type,” he remarked. “Not affiliated with any particular Tek outfit.”

“This time he and his
botito
are working for Johnny Trocadero.”

Bascom frowned. “Why are you only now mentioning this, Sid?”

“Hey,
jefe
, I came rushing in here a few minutes ago, bursting with news,” the curly-haired detective reminded his boss. “But I was informed that Jake had dragged in this
pendejo
and his faithful mechanical companion and that you were going to brief us before we got down to—”

“Okay, enough.” Bascom consulted his handful of printout memos. “Dunkirk and the bot are reposing down in Interrogation Suite 3 at the moment. Soon as our medics bring the guy out of his stungun swoon, we'll troop down there and ask him some pertinent questions.”

“He knows where Jill is,” said Gomez.

“He at least knows where they delivered her,” observed Jake. “What's the robot's name?”

Bascom's frown deepened. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“I'm curious.”

The chief riffled the memos. “Turns out the damn thing doesn't have a name. Satisfied?”

“You can tell a lot about people from what they name things.” Jake grinned.

“We're already scanning the bot's brain to see what he knows.”

“Timecheck told me there was a SoCal Teklord involved in this,” he told his partner. “Johnny Trocadero must be the one.”

“
Sí
, but I'm still not clear as to why he's risking going up against the overseas Tek
hombres
.”

Bascom said, “My prospective DC customer will want to know about that. So find out, fellas.”

“First,” put in Gomez, “we have to talk to this Dunkirk
cabrón
and find out where Jill is.”

The vidphone on Bascom's desk suddenly started talking. “Lieutenant Drexler of the SoCal State Police is out here in the reception area, Mr. Bascom. He has five officers with him and a warrant. He says he's going to see you at once.”

There were exactly forty-two vidscreens built into the walls of the mansion's main ballroom. Each one was displaying a different Marriner Media vidshow.

Sitting in the large room's only chair, thin fingers steepled beneath his chin, was a lanky black man in a grey suit. He was a year away from thirty, his hair was close-cropped. Two men and an android stood just to the rear of his high-back wicker chair. “Screen 8,” he said in his whispery voice.

The heavyset bearded man at the right of the standing trio said, “That's our
Moon Cops
show, Mr. Marriner.”

Marriner's lips puckered as though he were tasting something extremely sour. “Kill it.”

The thin blond man said, “But we guaranteed Selkirk at least a year of—”

“It's dead.”

“I agree with you on that one,” said the pink-cheeked andy. “
Moon Cops
is a dismal show, sir.”

“Sure you agree with me, putz,” the black man said. “That's how you were constructed.”

“No, I assure you, this is an honest opinion of my own.”

Marriner gave a quick whisper of a chuckle. “Screen 27,” he said.

The thin blond man said, “That's
Underwater Fiesta
. This episode was filmed off the coast of—”

“Reshoot the damn thing.”

The heavyset bearded man suggested, “It would be much more economical if we had the people in Enhancement punch up the existing—”

“Reshoot it.”

“Yes, sir,” said the thin blond man.

“Exactly what I was about to suggest,” said the android.

The room's door whirred quietly open. Thelma Glanzman appeared. “He's here.”

“Keep him out there for a while, Thel,” instructed Marriner. “Screen 19.”

The secondary ballroom was not quite as large as the main one. There were only thirty vidscreens in the walls and they displayed not Marriner Media shows but variable views of what was going on inside the major Marriner offices and facilities around the world.

Marriner had a small realwood desk in the center of this ballroom and he was sitting behind it, hunched forward. Spread out atop the desk was the front page of the top-selling e-newspaper in America. “What do you think of the headline, Ernie?”

Shiboo ran his tongue over his lips. “Very colorful, sir.” The Japanese was standing to the right of the desk. There were no other chairs in the big room.

“Not the typography, putz, the content.”

Shiboo cleared his throat, craned his head. “‘Thousands Die in Tunnel Tragedy.' Very catchy, sir.”

“No, hell, it's nowhere near specific enough,” countered the media tycoon. “Thousands of what—people, kangaroos, nasturtiums? If it's human beings—what kind? Where?”

“Putting it that way, Mr. Marriner, the line is a bit lacking in detail, yes.”

Marriner picked up a palmphone. “Bockman, we want a new head for the
Times-Post
. Specifics on that tunnel thing.”

Shiboo coughed into his hand.

Marriner glanced up at him. “How many maid andies did you deliver for my upcoming bash, Ernie?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

“I understand one of them has blue spots on her ass.”

“No, that's been taken care of.… How did you know that?”

“Ernie, there isn't one damn thing about you that I don't know or can't find out,” Marriner informed him. “I even know what goes on in the hay between you and that mechanized lummox of yours. Herky. Jesus.”

“My relationship with him is perfectly—”

“Tell me about Jill Bernardino.”

“Who?”

A whispery chuckle. “Ernie, you're not following this discussion at all as closely as you ought to be,” Marriner said, pushing back a few inches in his chair. “I had hoped I'd impressed you by this time with the fact that bullshit will get you nowhere when talking to me. How much did you tell her?”

Shiboo shook his head negatively, getting the shaking all tangled up with the uncontrolled shivering that had begun. “Not a thing, Mr. Marriner,” he insisted. “I mean, yes, as you seem to know, I have been providing her with information for a vidwall film she's scripting. It's about Sonny Hokori. I'm not sure if you knew him, but—”

“I knew Sonny quite well.”

“Well, sir, then you know that he's dead and done for. So are most of his relatives and the top people in his Tek cartel,” continued the uneasy Japanese. “Therefore, you see, I didn't think providing her with background information about the Hokori cartel would hurt anyone. Her producer was offering a very nice fee for my services and even though I only worked for Sonny in a minor capacity—”

“C'mon, Ernie, you were one of his top lieutenants. You even had a hand in framing Jake Cardigan on Tek charges and getting him sent up to the Freezer prison.”

“No, no, that's not true,” said Shiboo. “That was Sonny who arranged that—along with Bennett Sands and Cardigan's wife. Not me, however, sir.”

“Suppose we return to Jill Bernardino. How much did you tell her about what I'm planning?”

“I don't know anything about your plan.”

“Not the right answer, Ernie,” said Marriner. “You should've said something like, ‘Which of your multitude of plans are you talking about, sir?' You know, you're not even any good at playing dumb.”

Shiboo hugged himself to try to control his shivering. “All right, sir, I did hear a few rumors—since I do drop in at your various homes delivering androids—about some plan to team up with certain Tek cartels in Europe.”

“Which cartels, Ernie?” He reached over and took hold of the Japanese's wrist.

Grimacing at the pressure on his pudgy wrist, Shiboo answered, “Anzelmo was the only name I heard, sir.”

“What exactly are Anzelmo and I and the others working on, Ernie? How much of that did your spying bring out?”

“It wasn't spying,” contradicted Shiboo. “After all, I was deeply involved in the Tek trade for years and I'm bound to be interested in some kind of Tek network that may well put every Teklord in America out of business.”

Marriner smiled. “Yes, you'd naturally be curious about that,” he agreed. “Where's the Bernardino woman?”

“Don't you have her?”

Marriner shook his head and let go of the wrist. “No, although I'd very much like to.”

“Then I don't know,” said Shiboo. “Listen, sir, I'm really sorry if my curiosity has caused you—”

“Your damned curiosity, putz, has contributed to a lot of people finding out something about my plan.”

“As I say, I'm really sorry.”

Marriner slid open a drawer in his desk. “And well you should be, Ernie.” He lifted out a snub-nosed stungun and shot the Japanese.

13

Jake turned away from the monitor screen in the white metal wall of the interrogation suite. “Bascom appears to be successfully stalling Lieutenant Drexler,” he announced. “But there's no way of telling how long he'll be able to bring that off.”

At the center of the circular room the bald Dunkirk was strapped in a padded white metal chair. His eyes were open wide yet he didn't seem to be seeing anything.

Gomez, resting his hand on the arm of the chair, said to the young Chinese woman who was stationed just to the rear of Dunkirk, “Time is on the wing, Terri. Can we commence questioning this
cochino?
”

Terri Lee glanced over at a wall clock. “Okay, Gomez, the truth injection should've taken hold by now. Start slow, huh?”

Leaning closer, Gomez inquired, “You're Nigel Dunkirk?”

The bald man answered, in a slightly droning voice, “You got it, mate.”

“Who hired you for this job?”

“Don't know his bloody name.”

“Why's that, Nigel?”

“That's the way these things work out,” said Dunkirk. “I'm a freelancer, do you see. People know my specialties, know I got a good reputation and a success rate that's blooming miraculous. When they contact me, mate, they like to remain strictly anonymous.”

“You know Johnny Trocadero?”

“Heard of the bloke. Never actually met up with him.”

“Could he be behind this?”

“He might. He might not.”

Frowning, Gomez asked slowly, “Where did you take Jill Bernardino?”

Dunkirk blinked, grimaced. “I'm not supposed to tell.”

Terri said, “You have no choice.”

“Where did you take her?” repeated Gomez.

“Glendale Sector.”

“A little more specific,
por favor
.”

“Hotel Santa Clara.”

“A true dump,” observed Jake.

“Who'd you turn her over to?”

“Night clerk.”

“Name of?”

“Marsh Glendenny.”

“A certifiable lout,” said Jake.

“
Sí
,” agreed Gomez. Hunching his shoulders, he leaned even closer to the truth-drugged Dunkirk. “You were supposed to grab Jeffrey Monkwood too?”

“That's right, mate.”

“Same client?”

“Far as I know.”

“What's the connection between Monkwood and Jill Bernardino?”

“Well, as I understand it, this bloke was putting the blocks to her, know what I mean?”

“What else?”

“You can search me.”

“When you got Monkwood—where were you to take him? Same hotel?”

“No, him we got to drop off at the Sheridan Hotel in the Long Beach Sector.”

“Turning him over to who?”

“Charlie Menken. He's the manager.”

Gomez asked him, “What about me and my partner?”

“You two blokes we are just going to snuff out.”

“We better move along, Sid.” Jake nodded at the monitor screen that was showing him what was taking place up in the chief's office. “I don't think Bascom's going to be able to stall the minions of the law much longer.”

Stepping back, Gomez said, “Hate to leave you with this
pendejo
, Terri.”

“It's okay,” she said, smiling. “You and Jake had better scoot out one of our secret exits.”

Gomez was handling the controls of the skycar, guiding it through the darkening twilight toward the Glendale Sector of Greater Los Angeles. “Okay,
amigo
,” he said, “this is how I see things. On the one side we have these European Teklords who've banded together to pull off something
muy importante
and on the other side there's Johnny Trocadero, notorious local Tek kingpin, and possibly other native Tek luminaries. Somehow Jill got herself caught smack in the middle.”

Jake was in the passenger seat, a small reader/scanner held in his hand and a listening bug in his ear.

“
Amigo?
” said his partner after waiting for a response.

“Huh?”

“I was laying out my astute analysis of this whole business—and you thus far have failed to reply. Even polite applause would be appreciated.”

“Sorry, Sid.” He tugged out the listening bug and tapped the reader/scanner. “Been listening to a transcript of the thoughts that Terri and her crew gleaned from what passes for a brain in Dunkirk's robot.”

“
Cosa?
”

Jake touched a key and the voxbox in the reader began speaking. “… man on the vidphone screen is a big fellow, tall, hefty, in his fifties. Not too smart, though, not used to doing this sneaky stuff. Look at him, he didn't even think to blank the screen. And we can see part of the room he's in, too. Half of an animated poster showing on the wall. Says
Supp Starv Cent
.”