The Dark Side (33 page)

The door squeaks open. It's Chief Buchanan, sticking his shiny, moon-sized face inside.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “got a minute?”

“Sure,” says Justus.

He's about to get out of his seat, assuming the chief wants to speak in his own office, but then Buchanan starts squeezing his bulk inside, with a smiling, twinkly-eyed look on his face that reeks of phony bonhomie. Justus settles back and offers him the other chair, not that it's adequate, but Buchanan just starts moving back and forth in front of the venetians instead, his hand repeatedly diving into a bag of fluorescent orange corn chips called Mexiglows®. And Justus sees immediately how a meeting out of his comfort zone is no challenge for a man of such girth—he dominates any room he's in.

“Listen, Lieutenant, I don't want you to get the wrong idea.”
Munch munch munch
. “I know it looked bad yesterday, but like I said, the boys have a sorta natural reaction when they come across a splatter-fest like that. It's like, ‘Shit, someone should pay for puttin' us through this bullshit.' And then this kid shows up killin' suspects, and he's like the first rat that shows up after the Black Plague. Anyway, you didn't see the way he was freakin' out—if we hadn't brought him down when we did he mighta killed someone with that fence-post of his. We've seen it happen before. The little shit was on angel dust, you know that?”

“The report said amphetamines.”

“Yeah, well, another report just came in. Had traces of PCP under his fuckin' nails and all over his clothes. Moon Dragon too. Wonder the fucker was still alive. Maybe we did him a favor, 'cause all he was doin' was dyin' slowly anyway.”
Munch munch munch.

“Any indication of where he got his supplies?”

“Not a thing. But you don't know the sort of addicts we deal with daily here in Sin. They're a hundred times worse than
anything you woulda seen on the Blue Ball. The gear, man—it turns you inside out. And once you're hooked you don't know the color of your own shit. So someone in a back alley promises you a few grams of PCP and orders you to plug someone and away you go like a windup rabbit. If you succeed, you get a couple more trips. If you fail, no one misses you. This shithead, f'rinstance—he was just another drug-fucked kid from Earth lookin' for a passport. Been livin' in the ventilation system for three years—no family, no friends, not a cent to his name.”

“Sounds like he was well chosen.”

“Yeah, well, that's exactly what I'm here to talk about—who's behind all this bullshit.”

“You mean to say you know?” Justus asks.

“No, I don't know.” Buchanan briefly looks annoyed. “I'm still relyin' on you to find out—we all are. But I do know a bit about Kit Zachary and why he mighta been killed. Not somethin' I'm prepared to say in front of the others, but I thought it might be interestin' to you, yeah?”

Justus sits up in his chair. “Of course.”

Buchanan shovels so many Mexiglows® in his mouth that he has to take a couple of swallows before he can continue. “Well, it's like this. Kit Zachary was the biggest builder in town, that's no secret. He put together most of the public works ordered by QT Brass—that's no secret either. But what you may not know is this: He was fucking QT on the side. They were lovers. QT's got a daddy complex—always has had, or she wouldn't be here in the first place. No big deal, none of our business, you might say—and you're right, to a point. And that point is when QT starts fucking Kit Zachary's son as well. Now you might look at that little bitch and think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Well, let me tell you, that minx has got a twat like a hippo's yawn. She's banged just
about everything in Sin with a pulse—men and women and everything in between. Even that robot of hers, Leonardo Brownnose—she's fucked him too. And when she tosses out the trash, she
really
tosses out the trash. Kit Zachary thought he knew a thing or two about women—and make no mistake, he was no choirboy—but he didn't see it coming. Thought he had that bitch wrapped around his little finger. Well,
no one
wraps QT Brass around their finger. That was the problem with Kit—he was always overestimatin' himself. And he was good, in his way. But he was no match for Little Miss QT. You know that saying ‘Don't play chess, play people'? Well, it coulda been written for her. She's the most cunning sack of shit on the Moon or anywhere else. Got the blood of a python. So when she's finished with Kit Zachary, there's no coming back. The man was cat meat even if he didn't know it himself. He starts sticking his prong in cheap hookers, thinking that's some sort of payback, but what he doesn't realize is that he's just makin' it easy for her. Easy for her to hang his murder on drug fiends, crack whores, gangsters, terrorists—whatever. And now look where we are.”
Munch munch munch.

Justus can scarcely believe it. “I'm sorry, Chief,” he says, “but did I just understand you correctly? Did you just pin the blame for Kit Zachary's death on QT Brass?”

“I didn't pin the blame on anyone. That's your job.”

“But you've just
informed
me that she's the one behind his assassination.”

“All I did was
inform
you of what she's like. With men. You seem to have a little trouble gettin' it through your head.”

“And why is her love life important to the investigation, exactly?”

“Why? Because I'm warning you, that's all.”

“You're
warning
me?”

“Yeah—I'm
warning
you to be careful of the bitch. She'll make goo-goo eyes at you. She'll act like the damsel in distress. And before you know it you'll be eating her shit like ice cream. I warned you yesterday not to go seein' her, and now you've done it again—you went to visit her last night. So I'm puttin' it to you straight. I have to, for your own good. Don't go
near
her. She's got powers. She's a fuckin' witch.”

“I'm well aware of people's powers.”

“You sure about that?”

Buchanan's expression suggests he
knows
more than he's saying—perhaps even about the beguiling look QT shared with Justus—but Justus tells himself that's impossible. “Her association with the victim meant a meeting with her was unavoidable,” Justus says coolly. “I had many questions to ask.”

“Questions like whether she brought you into Purgatory, maybe?”

Now Justus frowns and says, “What does that mean?”

Buchanan pops a few more Mexiglows® into his mouth. “Look, don't get your britches in a twist. But word is you got hold of the immigration roster. That you were lookin' for who signed off on your appointment.”

“What about it?”

“Well, Little Miss QT supplied you with the list, is what we hear.”

“That's right.”

“Well, I'd just be very careful believin' anything that's given to you by that hussy. Everythin' in words, everythin' on paper—trust me. It's got pox on it.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

“You'd better, Lieutenant—for your own sake and ours.”
Munch munch munch.
“And another thing—apparently you got it
into your head to call the Brass Robotics Lab in Seidel Crater last night.”

Justus is chilled. When he was examining the immigration lists he came across an anomaly—three experts in robotics had been granted visas without any apparent authorization. When he inquired further, he was told it was because the men were not officially to reside in Sin: They would be doing some specialized work in the robotics lab at Saint Helena. He'd tried to call them only to find that the Farside comm line was down, and had been for days—something to do with a solar flare.

“That was supposed to be a private call,” he says.

“Private? Why?”

“Because I didn't know I was being listened to.”

“And then, when you couldn't get through direct, you called through the other way—to Peary Exchange, and from there to the South Pole.”

“Again, that was supposed to be a private call.”

“You spoke to someone down there—some guy you know in the Port Authority at Malapert. You asked him to go visit the lab and have a look-see.”

“I guess I did.”

“Why?”

“You're not really telling me you didn't hear the rest of the conversation as well?”

“I just wanna hear it from you in person.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I just wanna be sure you're not hiding something from us.”

“I thought I was in charge of this investigation.”

“You
are
in charge. But it's not only
your
investigation, is it? Is that the way you did things on Earth? Keeping important leads to yourself?”

“Of course not. But according to you, it's not important anyway.”

“Well, either way, you're gonna have to explain yourself, Lieutenant. Robotics experts? What the hell's it all about?”

“It's a loose end.”

“It's a
dead
end. Did QT plant some wacky idea in your head?”

“This has nothing to do with QT Brass.”

“You don't really think
robots
have got something to do with these deaths, do you? Just because there's no DNA?”

“If your men have got something better, I'd be pleased to hear it. In fact, I'd be pleased to hear anything from them at all.”

“That some sort of an insult? To your own investigative team?”

“Call it wishful thinking.”

“Oh yeah? Well, if you're off chasin' robots, don't expect too much help from them at all. They're not
that
stupid.”

“If you really think I'm stupid,” Justus says, “then find someone more competent to lead the investigation. In fact, why exactly am I leading it in the first place?”

Buchanan looks at him for a second or two, as if fanning through all the possible responses, and then bursts out laughing. He tosses another corn chip into his maw, and Justus sees his tongue is glowing orange. “Shit—ain't we the sensitive one? You never had a chief chew your ass out before? Well, get used to it. It's the way we do things in Purgatory. We give each other shit, we cut corners, we toss people around, we shoot bad guys, we don't answer to anyone, and guess what? We get the job done. We get it done better than any police force on Earth. And yeah, we know very well that the hornets here hate us and don't trust us. But what do you expect? They're the scum of the earth. Literally. That's exactly why they're here. So don't get your nose out of joint
just because a few cops ain't as keen as you are to cross every
t
and dot every fuckin'
i
. They can only pretend to be what they're not for so long, you know. And in Purgatory we work more from instinct than procedure anyway—but so what? That doesn't mean we're wrong. And it sure don't mean that we're bad. No matter what you've heard or read, Lieutenant.”

Justus isn't exactly disarmed, but Buchanan has spoken with such sincerity that he wonders, fleetingly, if his judgment has been a little severe. After all, he can hardly deny that some of the most honest, incorruptible cops he's ever met have been slobs, while some of the most corrupt and devious have been procedure freaks. Nor can he deny the possibility that everything Buchanan said about QT, despite the colorful phrasing, is fundamentally true.

Buchanan seems to sense his thaw and chuckles, reaching for the door. “Anyway, you have a think about it. Don't jump at shadows. And remember, I'm always ready for a chin-wag. All of us are. You can trust us. You
should
trust us. You comin' to my barbeque, by the way?”

“Is that still on?”

“Unless something major happens.”

“Heaven forbid.”

Buchanan is half out of the room when he remembers something. “Oh, how's the ankle, by the way?”

“All fixed. I found some sort of healing spray at a drugstore—”

“Doctor Messiah's Miracle Mist?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That stuff's unbelievable. I've known guys with back pain, joint pain, torn hamstrings—you name it. One spray of that stuff and the problem's gone in seconds. Too good for Earth, though—serious side effects or some shit. Only side effect I can see is that it
loosens people from their misery. And we can't have that, not on the Blue Ball, can we?”

“I guess not.”

Buchanan is closing the door when he remembers something else. “Oh, one other thing,” he says. “You know that Russian guy, the one you sent off to the Revelation Hotel . . . Kalganov?”

A shiver bolts through Justus: He'd sent Kalganov off to monitor QT's place at close range. “What about him?”

“Bad news. The idiot got himself killed. Just a couple of hours ago in Ishtar. A ton of bricks fell off a construction site and busted his head open. Instant death. Shit happens around here.”

Buchanan closes the door slowly and waddles away, scrunching the empty packet of corn chips.

T
U
N NG
IS A
lunatic. And a postman. Back in Vietnam he drove refrigerated trucks the length of the country for the Hai Ha Confectionary Company. He delivered chocolate bars, cream wafers, lollipops, and ice cream in sweltering heat, in monsoons, even in typhoons. This alone, considering the condition of the country's overcrowded highways, might classify Tu
n Ngô as a lunatic. But Ngô is also a kleptomaniac. And in satisfying this peculiar craving he used his job to good advantage: He would swipe valuables from bars, from hotels, from markets, from local stores, hide them under the cabin of his truck, and be three hundred kilometers away by sundown. He was so effective that he began to earn as much from this side business as he did from truck driving, and ended up with so much merchandise in his house that he had to build an extension to hold it all in. But he just wasn't getting rid of the goods fast enough: not in the
streets, not in the bars, not online. It started getting dangerous. Especially when he began boasting publicly about his exploits, and actually inviting potential customers, strangers—even tourists!—around to view his Aladdin's cave. It was as if he
wanted
to be caught. And maybe he did.