Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) Page 2

  A man stepped out from one of the aisles.

  “Now, Manny,” he said, “I thought we agreed that you’d keep all your…feelings to yourself.”

  “But…”

  “Go in the back and do some inventory.” It was a command, of sorts, but the man’s voice had a hint of kindness, like on some level he understood that Manny couldn’t help himself. Manny, for his part, grumbled something, but retired into the stockroom.

  The man turned to face us. He was dressed like a hip professor, replete with designer tweed blazer and well-maintained leather boots. Despite his appearance, it was clear that he was no scholar—his hands were broad and rough, the type used to digging dirt or wielding tools, not pencils. I just hoped that they were benevolent.

  His jacket rippled a little bit when he leaned in with an outstretched hand, showing the hint of some damn big muscles.

  “Otto,” he said, grasping Cassie’s hand and mine in rapid succession, “I’m sorry about that. He’s the only one my employers knew in this town—”

  “No need to apologize,” Cassie said, although the way she said it screamed that she thought there was every reason to apologize. And kick Manny’s teeth straight through his wrinkled nose. “I’m used to it.”

  “I find that a sad commentary on this little place,” he said, waving an arm about his head, “it seems so very quaint.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, if you like hookers and white trash.”

  “I suppose they do have their charms, as does everything in this life,” Otto said. “But enough about that, because I’m sure you’re wondering what job I have for you.”

  “I’m wondering if it pays,” I said. Cassie shot me a look that could’ve been launched from a missile silo. I decided to let her play lead. It was her business; I guess I was just an employee.

  And not a very good one.

  “It pays quite well, if you can track down a certain item.” He looked back and forth between us. “A location, rather. But of course, I’ll give you something to get started. That you can keep, even if things don’t shake out in the end.”

  “Oh, things will shake out. We’re good at what we do, Mr…?” Cassie said.

  “Otto,” he reassured us both, “just call me plain old Otto. No need for formalities.”

  The whole group seemed to relax. At least, until he pulled out a snapshot of what he was looking for.

  “This,” he said, scrolling through the various pictures on his tablet’s bright screen, “is a mock-up of a 10,000 year old piece of artwork from some of the first indigenous people in North America.”

  “We’re not art dealers,” Cassie said. “Or thieves.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, and then turned his gaze towards me, “but, perhaps one of you has a unique skill set that can be of great use in acquiring this item. A certain resourcefulness.”

  “Who’d you say you worked for?”

  “My employer is a private man—”

  “Cut the shit,” Cassie said, grabbing him by his lapels. Even though he had her beat by several weight classes, Otto’s posture stiffened. He was taking notice. “What do you want this thing for? And what’s with the Dr. Otto get-up?”

  That seemed to strike a note. A bad, ugly one.

  “These are my clothes,” he said, brushing her arms from his blazer as if shaking off a troublesome fly, “this isn’t some act.” He placed the tablet computer back into his shoulder satchel. “I thought you were the type of people who could get things done, but perhaps I can find another competent party in this cesspool of a town. A tall order.” He turned on an expensive, well-cobbled heel and headed towards the door.

  “Wait,” I said. “Just answer the damn questions.”

  But Otto wasn’t waiting for us. The metal door swung open, exposing the full sun above before slamming shut. We stood there in silence for a moment, until Manny came out and began making loud noises that segued into insults.

  Cassie made a start towards him, but I grabbed her arm, and instead she gave him a few choice words, knocked a couple light bulbs off the shelf, and went outside.

  “Now what,” I said, leaning up against the truck. “You said it, Cass. We’re bleeding money. That was a big fish.”

  “Something else will come along.”

  “Nothing else has.”

  She fixed those eyes on me. “Something will.” And she walked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  7

  Johnny Boy

  A hundred bucks doesn’t go very far when you’re buying drinks at a bar. I slammed my last few greenbacks on the beer-soaked wood and called out to Austin.

  “Beer,” I said, “make it your best.”

  “That’ll buy some of our best piss-water,” he said, scooping up the money and putting it in the till.

  “Deal,” I said, taking the tall glass of yellow liquid and sipping it. He wasn’t joking about the piss part. I rubbed my fingers through the well-travelled nuts sitting on the bar. I wasn’t brave enough to eat any of them. Not unless I was fall-down drunk, and it didn’t look like the last of my funds was going to get me there.

  “Say, Desmond,” old Johnny called from across the other side, “how’s the dog fetchin’ business going?”

  I gave him the finger.

  “I might have something for you,” he said, dropping his voice, coming closer, “if you want in.”

  “I’m not cooking meth in some nineteen year old girl’s apartment, Johnny.” Even if that wasn’t the scheme, it was bound to be something similar. He talked this crap to everyone in the Lone Star. Austin only let him stick around because he never did any of it, and somehow he always managed to pay his tab.

  Which put him in an elite, distinguished group of customers.

  “Nah man, that fell through,” he said, pulling up a stool. “My girl bitched out. Said it wasn’t worth it.” He just rolled his head a little bit and smiled, rubbing his clean shaven head. “Then kicked me out.”

  Johnny, he was an ugly bastard, but the chicks this guy got were something else. They could make some money—real money, not just hooking money—with looks like those, if they weren’t all dumber than a wheelbarrow of busted bricks. Instead, they wound up with Johnny, who talked his bullshit ideas and sponged them dry of whatever change they had lurking between their couch cushions.

  “I’m sure that hasn’t stopped you though, Johnny boy.”

  “Nah,” he admitted, “buy you a drink?”

  “Now we’re talking. Austin,” I called, beckoning him over, “give me your best. Johnny’s buying.”

  “Natty Ice,” Johnny said, holding up two fingers. Austin dug around in the cooler and handed us each a can. At least it was cold.

  “You bought my ear,” I said. “For a couple minutes. I don’t know how much this is worth, but shoot.”

  Johnny put his elbows up on the counter and laid his hands out, like he was about to diagram an elaborate plan. I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I was still thinking that I could get home, convince Cass to take this gig from Otto. Even if he was a little bit oily.

  “It’s like this, Desmond,” he said, “Someone took something from me. Or they will.”

  “Go to the cops,” I said, swishing the beer around in my mouth. It didn’t get better the longer I savored it. “I heard they’re good with that sort of thing.”

  “Ah, see old friend—”

  “I’ll let that slide.”

  Johnny continued, undeterred by my insult. “It’s an, uh, delicate situation.”

  “Me and Cassie are pretty busy these days.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, “and I don’t want the girl on this. I want you.” He added the last bit like I lacked moral fiber, and was just the type of shady character he was looking for. I couldn’t quite deny that.

  “All right, let’s say I’m
curious. What do I need to do?”

  He slapped me on the back and ordered another round. The way things were going, I was going to get a nice buzz for free, and never even have to hear the pitch. Pretty good deal, far as I was concerned.

  Once we’d settled into our new beers, though, he got straight to it.

  “I was playing cards the other night with a few fellows I know—”

  “What were you playing?”

  Johnny stared at me, unsure what to say. “Seven-card stud.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s a detective thing.”

  “Yeah, all right, sure. Anyways, I was playing…Seven-card stud with two fellows—Jack Ramsky and Donovan Bledsoe—and I got in a little deep. A losing streak.”

  “Those are the worst.” I wouldn’t know. About the only thing I did right was I never gambled.

  “Yeah, and this was a real bad one. You’re lucky I can afford to get you that beer.”

  “Don’t I know it.” A gentle buzz was starting to tug at the sides of my face. If I didn’t blow it, I could get a few more out of him and have a halfway decent night. That didn’t happen because of what he had to say next.

  “So, I might have promised these guys a little action. From my girl. A side bet. And you see, Maggie is already pissed, catching me with another woman and all.”

  “Maggie the one who threw your ass out?”

  “That’s the one,” he said, “she’s a firecracker, that bitch.”

  “Double dipping always ends bad.”

  “I know, but this chick, she was hotter than Maggie, man. Eight minimum.”

  “What’s it to you, then, if Maggie gets double-teamed by two greaseballs? You said she’s beat, anyway.”

  He shot me a look. “I didn’t say she was beat. She ain’t beat.”

  “All right, whatever. Why do you care about saving her?”

  “Well, she don’t know about the bet, and didn’t agree to none of it. So I’m thinkin’ afterwards…”

  “She goes straight to the cops and tells them all about your sorry ass turning her over to two hoods like a piece of goddamn beat-up beef. And you head up state for a nice visit.”

  “A permanent visit, man,” he said. “Three strikes. And something like this, they gonna gun for it. Hard. Rape, sexual assault. Something bad.”

  “And they say chivalry’s dead.”

  “Screw that, man. This is self-preservation.”

  “You still haven’t explained why you need me.”

  He got this grin on his face which I knew meant nothing good. All it meant was that I should’ve gotten the hell out of that goddamn bar, thanking him for his barley flavored water with a middle finger.

  But I never claimed to be smart. And when he said he’d give me a thousand bucks, well, that just about made my mind up right there.

  “I got a plan to get rid of these two clowns,” he started, and over the course of half a beer—it wasn’t a long plan, see—he gave me the rundown. When he’d finished, I just looked at him, waiting for the rest. Nothing else was coming.

  “That’s the dumbest fucking plan I’ve ever heard, Johnny.”

  He didn’t say anything for about a minute, then countered. “A thousand bucks. I’ll show it to you.”

  I didn’t have to think about it.

  I just needed to see the cash.

  8

  Bust

  It wasn’t the cleanest money I’d ever seen, banded all tight with nice clips or anything like that, but I figured the dirty greenery would spend just fine.

  Which was how I found myself out at Pete’s Point, overlooking the town. These two morons had an illegal trailer set up there—but then, Seaside PD didn’t have teeth. Small time hoodlums scared them, it seemed.

  “They took my damn scheme,” Johnny said, nodding his gleaming dome towards the smoke billowing across the night sky, “I told them about that a couple weeks ago.”

  “You been playing cards with these idiots for that long?”

  “It was going well until I brought Maggie into it,” he said, “then they hit a hot streak.”

  “I’d say they’re about to.”

  “That’s my woman you’re talking about.” The right words were there, but the conviction was lacking. I liked this plan less and less by the minute. Nonetheless, the prospect of keeping the AC juiced and some food in the fridge spurred my feet forward. Maybe Cassie would even like it, me taking initiative for once.

  Doubtful.

  I watched the two shadows move back and forth behind the drawn curtains. That didn’t seem safe, cloth curtains in a portable meth lab.

  “All right,” Johnny said, “you ready?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  We crept forward, eyes locked on the trailer. But the occupants didn’t come out, so we kept pushing up. Pretty soon, my back was flush against the front, right next to the door, Johnny beside me.

  “Remind me why you came,” I said, fumbling in my pocket, “if you’re not going to do shit.”

  “Distractions, man, distractions.”

  “Yeah, don’t do that.” I took out my snake rake and tension wrench, clutching them between my fingers. Time to start. With a nod back at Johnny, I snuck over to the door. The ten feet felt like about ten miles, but I made it.

  Then I was in my element. I slid the tension wrench in the bottom part of the lock. I could already feel that this was going to be easy; trailers didn’t sport the gold standard in security. A single rake from the pick and a twist later, and I was peering inside the hazy confines of a double-wide.

  One being used to convert store-bought cough suppressants into addictive stimulants.

  And I always thought of Seaside Heights as such a quaint place. I suppressed a snicker, remembering Otto’s small talk. I slipped inside and eased the door shut.

  The two idiots were hunched over a table at the other end of the trailer, which was about thirty feet down. I peered over the countertop, straining to make sense of their voices. No dice; just a murmur, obscured by surgical masks and goggles straight out of high school Chem class.

  I had to get closer.

  Cursing my own stupidity—Bledsoe and Ramsky weren’t going to split the atom, but they could hold their own in a fist fight—I crouch walked closer. I was right in the middle of the hallway, in plain view. If they turned, I was done.

  For some reason, my feet kept moving further, until I was only about ten feet away. Now I could hear them just peachy.

  “Ya goddamn dummy,” Ramsky—at least, I think it was Ramsky—said to the smaller guy, “ya put that one in first, then you turn the heat up.”

  “We ain’t making medicine,” Bledsoe replied, throwing his mask at the wall, “just crystal. Hell, the tweakers around here won’t know the difference.”

  “I ain’t poisoning no one. That’s murder one and twenty-five to life in the pen. Put your damn mask back on before I hold you down and tape it there. Don’t want to be breathing this shit. Get that emphysema.”

  This would do. I sucked in my breath as Bledsoe went to gather the fallen mask, but he never turned around, instead doing a crab-esque side shuffle to the wall and back.

  I dialed the burner phone Johnny had handed me earlier, muting the microphone. The call connected. I placed the cheap plastic device on the counter above me, and backed up. My luck had just about run out.

  Ramsky and Bledsoe were still having a spirited conversation about the quality of their product and other issues of respect as I retreated.

  I started running once I was outside.

  “You do it,” Johnny asked, galloping up alongside me, “you set it to 911?”

  “Yeah, I did. Where’s my cash?”

  “Hot
damn Desmond,” he said, slapping me across the back, sending the air scooting from my lungs like a runaway train, “I knew you were the right guy for this.”

  “Glad I could help out. Money.”

  “Deal was, the cops had to get ‘em.” Johnny looked around. “You think they’ll come? They can locate them with the signal, right? That’s not just in the movies?”

  “Your plan. You tell me.”

  Johnny shrugged and knelt down behind a tree. From our vantage point, the trailer was a comfortable distance away, and we were hidden—from any assailants or potential police presence.

  “That’s what it said on the internet. I used Google.”

  “Big day.”

  “You’re some sort of prick, you know that?”

  “You and Cassie should start your own little group. Bitch about me to each other.”

  “Yeah, well—hey, check it out.” Johnny leapt to his feet like a kid who’d just seen that the toy store had something he wanted. “Those are lights, all right. Thought that was all pretend, just in the stories.”

  “Cops aren’t messing around tonight.”

  Red and blue painted Pete’s Point. I checked my watch. Seven minutes since I’d left the trailer. Not bad. It’d taken twenty-seven seconds to pick and open the lock. They weren’t as fast as me, but then, I wasn’t as fast as I used to be. Going on the straight and narrow kills your skills.

  “Whaddya say we get out of here, grab a beer at the Lone Star?” I wasn’t eager to stick around. Bledsoe or Ramsky—I couldn’t tell who from this distance—had just poked his head out the door to see why the police had paid them a surprise house call.

  “We gotta make sure,” Johnny said, shaking his head. I wasn’t sure how our presence was going to seal the deal, but I’m a sucker for a bag of bills. I stayed put and watched the fireworks.

  Two cruisers peeled into the dirt, skidding to a sideways halt. Officers popped out from the steel-framed monsters like they’d been wound up in a jack-in-the-box. I counted three of them, pistols already drawn. I heard the fourth, though; he had a megaphone that could just about blow your ears off.