wear a uniform.”
“The third?”
“I won’t carry a gun.”
“If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine with me . What made you change your mind?”
“Something I should have seen ten years ago,” Val
said, before hanging up.
Back in the alley, fumbling for the car keys in his
jacket pocket, Val’s path was suddenly blocked by a couple of muggers on early
shift. They must have followed him into the alley, Val assumed, though he
hadn’t been aware of them until they were in his face. The one holding the
blood-filled syringe was white and had breath that smelt worse than week-old
road-kill.
“Let’s have the wallet, podna.” His voice sounded
hoarse as though somebody had poured lye down his throat. Val could see blood
smears on the syringe’s needle.
“Best do what he says,” his Latin accomplice
encouraged. “You don’t want a taste of the virus.”
The Latin was holding a telescopic steel baton in his
right hand and was slapping it against the palm of his left. Extended, it could
break an arm or crack a skull.
“Sure. Anything you say. Just don’t stick me.” Val
reached slowly around to his hip pocket and pulled his wallet out. They were
alone in the alley. The whites of their eyes were too clear for druggies, but
Val had been wrong before.
“Give it here,” the Latin said, snapping it from his
hands.
He opened it and scanned the contents. Val’s eyes
never left his.
“Is this all you’re carrying?” the man asked finally.
“A lousy fifty bucks.”
The guy holding the syringe stabbed it towards Val’s
throat.
“You holding out on us?”
Val shook his head. “That’s it. I swear it.”
That seemed to satisfy them and they started to back
off .
“Now’s not the time to try anything dumb,” the Latin
warned.
They turned on their heels and loped off down the
alley.
Val opened the car door and climbed in. What sort of
mugger, he wondered, turning the key in the ignition, takes the time to read
the name on his victim’s driving license before counting the cash? He had a
strong feeling that he knew why Jarvis Kraftson had kept him waiting so long in
the foyer.
Bill Trochan opened the door of his room in a run-down
single resident occupancy hotel wearing nothing but a set of graying skivvies.
It took him a moment or two to recognize Val.
Trochan sucked
catarrh back down his throat. "What the fuck do you want?”
He was a small man and must have been right on the
minimum height requirement for the department. He had a tiny, round face and a
lopsided grin that made him appear to be constantly pulling a W.C. Fields
impression.
“Can we talk inside?”
Trochan swung back the door and waved him in. The TV
was on, though the sound was turned down. Everything in the room was a shade of
brown. The drapes were sienna, the carpeting a dark rust color, and the
furniture a cheap mahogany veneer. The stale air smelt strongly of dirty socks
and milk on the turn.
“Okay, now you’re in. What do you want?”
“To see you put on some clothes.”
“You’re a funny man.”
Trochan slipped on a pair of trousers, but left it at
that. His trouser waistband needed cinching with a belt.
“You've dropped some weight since you were at Garden,”
Val said.
“It’s the welfare diet. You get to eat alternate days.
You can fucking leave now if all you want to do is joke and talk nutrition.”
“I’m trying to locate Donny Jackson. I thought you
might be able to point me in the right direction.”
Trochan didn’t seem surprised by the inquiry, but he
didn’t answer it either.
“I hear you quit the department,” Trochan said. “You
walked; you weren’t pushed. What made you do something like that?”
Val had a reply he knew would satisfy him. “I was
tired of messing with people’s lives.”
Trochan lifted a pack of cigarettes from the table and
slid one out. He lit it and took a long drag. “I know what you mean. They take
two coonasses like
“The third?”
“I won’t carry a gun.”
“If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine with me . What made you change your mind?”
“Something I should have seen ten years ago,” Val
said, before hanging up.
Back in the alley, fumbling for the car keys in his
jacket pocket, Val’s path was suddenly blocked by a couple of muggers on early
shift. They must have followed him into the alley, Val assumed, though he
hadn’t been aware of them until they were in his face. The one holding the
blood-filled syringe was white and had breath that smelt worse than week-old
road-kill.
“Let’s have the wallet, podna.” His voice sounded
hoarse as though somebody had poured lye down his throat. Val could see blood
smears on the syringe’s needle.
“Best do what he says,” his Latin accomplice
encouraged. “You don’t want a taste of the virus.”
The Latin was holding a telescopic steel baton in his
right hand and was slapping it against the palm of his left. Extended, it could
break an arm or crack a skull.
“Sure. Anything you say. Just don’t stick me.” Val
reached slowly around to his hip pocket and pulled his wallet out. They were
alone in the alley. The whites of their eyes were too clear for druggies, but
Val had been wrong before.
“Give it here,” the Latin said, snapping it from his
hands.
He opened it and scanned the contents. Val’s eyes
never left his.
“Is this all you’re carrying?” the man asked finally.
“A lousy fifty bucks.”
The guy holding the syringe stabbed it towards Val’s
throat.
“You holding out on us?”
Val shook his head. “That’s it. I swear it.”
That seemed to satisfy them and they started to back
off .
“Now’s not the time to try anything dumb,” the Latin
warned.
They turned on their heels and loped off down the
alley.
Val opened the car door and climbed in. What sort of
mugger, he wondered, turning the key in the ignition, takes the time to read
the name on his victim’s driving license before counting the cash? He had a
strong feeling that he knew why Jarvis Kraftson had kept him waiting so long in
the foyer.
Bill Trochan opened the door of his room in a run-down
single resident occupancy hotel wearing nothing but a set of graying skivvies.
It took him a moment or two to recognize Val.
Trochan sucked
catarrh back down his throat. "What the fuck do you want?”
He was a small man and must have been right on the
minimum height requirement for the department. He had a tiny, round face and a
lopsided grin that made him appear to be constantly pulling a W.C. Fields
impression.
“Can we talk inside?”
Trochan swung back the door and waved him in. The TV
was on, though the sound was turned down. Everything in the room was a shade of
brown. The drapes were sienna, the carpeting a dark rust color, and the
furniture a cheap mahogany veneer. The stale air smelt strongly of dirty socks
and milk on the turn.
“Okay, now you’re in. What do you want?”
“To see you put on some clothes.”
“You’re a funny man.”
Trochan slipped on a pair of trousers, but left it at
that. His trouser waistband needed cinching with a belt.
“You've dropped some weight since you were at Garden,”
Val said.
“It’s the welfare diet. You get to eat alternate days.
You can fucking leave now if all you want to do is joke and talk nutrition.”
“I’m trying to locate Donny Jackson. I thought you
might be able to point me in the right direction.”
Trochan didn’t seem surprised by the inquiry, but he
didn’t answer it either.
“I hear you quit the department,” Trochan said. “You
walked; you weren’t pushed. What made you do something like that?”
Val had a reply he knew would satisfy him. “I was
tired of messing with people’s lives.”
Trochan lifted a pack of cigarettes from the table and
slid one out. He lit it and took a long drag. “I know what you mean. They take
two coonasses like
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