The Hammer Falls Page 20

  “Someone’s got to give you people some culture,” Tina said.

  “Hang on a sec,” Bunny said. After a moment, she said, “I just heard from one of the boys. Trask is awake and he wants us. Let’s get back.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t fucking fire you right now, the both of you,” Trask thrust a short finger at both Tina and Bunny, his eyes blazing. “Or have you arrested for grand theft. You took the last asset I fucking have, that road train engine, and you put it in shooting range of another one of those fucking drones.”

  He lay in his hospital bed, his arm in a cast reaching beyond his elbow. His face was haggard, his cheeks pale, his sparse hair flying in all directions, and his voice hoarse, but his eyes were bright and focused like lasers on all of them.

  Bunny said, “We thought you’d want a little payback—”

  “Pay those bastards back by giving them my fucking engine, too?”

  Horace said, “Take it easy, Mr. Trask, they did it—”

  “I know why they fucking did it. And don’t try to tell me it was all your idea, Hammer.” He glanced pointedly at Bunny.

  “Why aren’t you pissed at him?” Tina said.

  “Because he doesn’t work for me. And I am a little peeved.” He turned his ire upon Horace. “If there was ever a case of someone sticking his neck out and getting the whole fucking head cut off, it’s me, this bullshit, right now. And those poor fuckers we left out there on the pavement!” His voice cracked, just once, then he cleared his throat and regathered himself. “Albany is off, and I was counting on it to get through the next six months.”

  “At least we’re alive, Boss,” Tina said.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a—” His voice caught, then came with a heavy sigh. “Nah, that’s feeling-sorry-for-myself bullshit. Of course I’m glad I’m alive. I built this stable. I’ve had to start over before, I can do it again. But we’re up against the fence on this one. My headliner and half my fighters are dead, and the rest will be recovering for weeks. The repairs on the road train are more dough than I can scrounge and will take weeks if I can find it. If I can scavenge up some bouts for the boys that are left—someday—we’ll be traveling by pack mule. Hammer, I—”

  “It’s not Hammer’s fault, Boss,” Tina said.

  “I know that!” Trask snapped.

  “It’s like your friend Vince said,” Horace said. “There’s vodka in everything.”

  Trask’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We found something,” Tina said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After they had shoehorned enough words between Trask’s expostulations of vitriol to make a coherent account of what they had uncovered, Trask lay quiescent, his mouth working as if he were chewing on a cigar.

  “Motherfuckers,” Trask said. “If this gets out, it could destroy the entire sport. Every league in the world.”

  “And that’s just the beginning,” Bunny said. “How far will these people go to protect their operations? Regenecorp still has contracts with every First World and corporate military on the planet. The only other company even close to having regenite technology was a defunct Japanese company called Gen-Key.”

  “Never heard of them,” Trask snorted.

  “That’s because they died under an avalanche of patent litigation and corporate sabotage ten years ago. When other possible competitors saw what happened to Gen-Key, they packed up and quietly faded into the woodwork. Regenecorp has enacted seven military actions against companies who gave the slightest whiff of getting into the regeneration business.”

  “Never heard of those either,” Trask said.

  “I hadn’t heard of it either, until just now when I went digging. The news stories were all buried. The investors tried to hide those companies in places like Burma and West Africa. Hundreds of employees from those companies were killed during the actions. And you’ve never heard of that because events in countries like those never reach even the Top 1000 news stories here. No offense, Hammer, but the color of your underwear is more important to most Americans than a genocide-driven famine in Africa that costs hundreds of thousands of lives. And the megacorps who own the media companies aren’t exactly interested in covering the wars they started.”

  “Nothing like facts to assuage my broken heart,” Trask said wryly.

  “The greed these gangsters slop all over this planet hurts people,” Bunny said, her voice turning angrier by the word. “I fought against people like them for years, until the Feds caught me. The good that I had done was less important than making sure they silenced me, that the poopheads in charge stayed in charge, and didn’t have to worry about little old me.”

  Horace said, “Didn’t you say that you have a huge pile of data hiding somewhere? You think there’s anything in there that might help us put a torch to the Mogilevich empire?”

  “I’m sure there is,” she said. “But I can’t get to it. The passwords and encryption are coded to my DNA. I’m the only person on this planet who can access it. But I can’t, because of the lock on my AI.”

  “So how do you get the lock taken off?”

  “Bribe my parole officer.” She tucked a few strands of hair behind her implant. “I’m only half-kidding. The handling of cyberpaths’ AIs is strictly at the discretion of the individual parole officers. Like I told you, they’re not going to release my lock without me giving up the data, and there are people with a whole lot of money who can pay to make sure he keeps me quiet. It is de facto locked, permanently.”

  “But do you think your parole officer would consider it?”

  “I have submitted a request to him every month since I got out of the hole. He apparently has me flagged for automated form rejections.”

  “What about the press?” Tina said. “Can we go to them with the photos? There’s gotta be a gonzo journalist out there who would love to stick it to one of the most powerful megacorps in the world.”

  “You said it right there,” Trask said. “‘The Most Powerful Megacorps In The World.’ Remember what Bunny was saying about those companies in Burma and Africa? Unless said reporter has his own army to safeguard his personal well-being, you’re going to have a hard time not getting the door slammed in your face.”

  “So then, what?” Tina said. “We’re just fucked? The whole world is just fucked? Forced to let these mob cartels and their hand-fed politicians and their corporate toadies shit all over everything?”

  Horace said, “They’ve been doing it for over a century, kid.”

  “Right!” she snapped back, “And because they’re so huge, with all the power and all the money, the world looks more like feudalism and tyranny.”

  Horace said, “Democracy has been a pretense ever since I was a kid.”

  Trask snorted. “Listen to us, talking like we’re great thinkers going to solve the world’s problems.”

  Horace said, “I just need to find a way to get my friend Lilly out from under these people.” She was fine when he spoke to her, but it could only be a matter of time before they moved on her. The doctored video sent to intimidate him showed that their data feelers went very deep.

  Tina said, “So who’s Lilly? Catch me up on your personal life, O Venerable One.”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  He paused. “Not really, no.”

  “So you want her to be your girlfriend.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “No—”

  “But you want to.”

  “Well, sure—”

  “So you just want to bang her.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Man, she’s got you all twisted up! Can you tell if you’re coming or going? I can’t tell the difference between your face and your ass. Who is she?”

  Bunny, having watched this entire exchange with a faint smirk, chimed in, “A dancer.”

  “And by dancer, do you mean str
ipper?” Tina said.

  With every word out of Tina’s mouth, Horace felt more and more foolish and defensive.

  Tina rolled her eyes. “You’re in love with a stripper? We’re all dancing around in the mouth of death for a stripper?”

  Trask said, “Judging by the look on his face, Tina, you’d be wise to shut your trap just now.”

  Horace looked down at the warm metal in his hands, the railing of the hospital bed. It wasn’t straight anymore.

  Somewhere in the room, a netlink chimed with an incoming voice call, the sound of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Trask said, “Where the hell is my phone?” Tina found it in his trouser pocket and handed it to him. He answered it.

  After a short, terse conversation consisting mostly of grunts of acknowledgment mixed with, “Sure, sounds great,” Trask hung up and looked at Horace. “Well, that was my buddy Vince. He heard all about our little altercation last night and wanted to check on our well-being.”

  “What a guy,” Horace said. The idea of engaging with another mobster twisted his stomach into sour knots.

  “Watch the sarcasm. He’s as stand-up a mobster as you’ll find anywhere. And he’s a capo in the Magaddino family. They’ve been big in the Buffalo area for a hundred and fifty years. Don’t forget, he’s a fan. You and me are going out tonight. He’s sending a car for us at seven.”

  “Sorry, my wardrobe’s a little sparse at the moment.”

  “Vince is a traditional sort of guy. Show up in that and he’ll be insulted. You need to go shopping.”

  Horace sighed. “I don’t suppose I can say no. Can’t we just rent a tux or something?”

  Tina snickered. When she noticed everyone looking at her, she straightened her lips as best she could. “Sorry.” When she failed to erase the smile completely, she said, “It’s just so adorable! The Hammer in a tux. Like giving a Neanderthal a top hat and cane and teaching him to sing ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’”

  Trask’s glare dimmed her smirk. “You’re missing the big picture here, Hammer. This guy we’re hanging out with tonight.” He spoke some words slowly, letting them seep in. “Vince represents an organization, an organization that might have an interest in making trouble for the same people who are making trouble for you. Do you follow me yet?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Bingo,” Trask said. “Now let go of my bed.”

  “Dammit. Sorry.”

  Trask said, “Vince may have something interesting to say.”

  “I’m not putting any more favors on credit,” Horace said.

  “Look,” Trask said, “I got a lot of interest in getting clear of these bastards, too. I’m on their radar now, because I took you in. If you get clear, so do I. So shut the fuck up, and let’s see what we can do to make that happen.”

  “Great!” Tina said, “So when do we leave?”

  Horace said, “You’re not going.”

  “Shut up, Old Jules, I haven’t had a night on the town in ages!”

  “This is a guy party,” Horace said.

  She scowled. “Such bullshit. Next you’ll be telling me I can wear pants!”

  “Now, hang on a minute, little girl, it’s not like—”

  Her eyes blazed. “Little girl! Sorry, Grandpa, I couldn’t hear you with the pigtails in my ears.”

  “You can wear pants all you want!” Horace said, his brain starting to spin and flounder like a wobbly tire at the force of her oncoming tirade.

  “Women can wear pants? Oh, my god! I didn’t know! Mine always caught on fire the moment they came in contact with my lady crotch! I even tried wearing boxers to trick the pants, but it’s like the pants know I’m keeping a vagina in there. Poof! Burst into flames.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Yeah, you and every other male on this planet is afraid of a little ol’ vagina—”

  “Will you shut up a second and let me explain?”

  “See! Now you’re trying to silence my outrage because you know you fucked up!”

  Horace sighed and walked toward the door. “You’re not going.”

  On his way out, he thought he heard, “Like you’re going to stop me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Complete with red-and-white checked tablecloths, flowers on every table, and the smells of fresh bread, simmering marinara, and roasted garlic filling the air like an olfactory symphony, Campanello’s was a classic Italian restaurant.

  The district was one of old brownstones and crumbling concrete, but with a character that reached back a hundred and fifty years. Flowers bloomed in window boxes, and the street was empty of the ubiquitous, uncollected garbage endemic to so many modern cities, a symptom of the systemic indifference toward anything with “public” as part of its description. This neighborhood was clearly under someone’s oversight, someone’s protection.

  Sicilian folk music, a harmonic sauce of organetto and violin, played from invisible speakers and laced every corner of the restaurant’s interior, every mahogany nook, every shadowed booth. A smattering of patrons of all walks of life dove into heaping mounds of pasta and marinara. A few narrow-eyed men in slick, sparklesilk suits lounged with painted, buxom divas. In the corners, thick-shouldered, bull-necked men in less ostentatious garb picked their teeth and simply watched.

  In such surroundings, Horace’s patched together attire made him feel like a fool, in spite of the desperation of his situation. Bunny had found him a second- or third-hand beige sport coat, plaid trousers, and a white button-up shirt washed so many times it was practically see-through. It was all utterly hideous, a stain upon the eyes, a fashion holocaust. But still more appropriate than bloodstained black pajamas.

  Bunny had found his attire in a second-hand clothing store near the hospital. All of the new clothing stores were downtown among the mazes of steel and glass, where the fancy boutiques lived, where it was fashionable to be seen, where armed security checked the credentials of every customer. Out on the fringes of town, where labor-class folks and IT drones scraped out a living with scraps from the megacorps’ tables, the only clothing stores were second-hand.

  “This is all I could find in Wooly Mammoth size,” she said as she handed him the bag.

  “Look, Bunny, you didn’t have to—”

  “Zip it, buster!” Bunny stuck a finger in his face, her eyes flaring with anger. “You’ve destroyed the livelihoods of everyone still alive, just by showing up. Did any of us ask for this? No! I didn’t have to do this. And you didn’t have to bring the wrath of the worst mobsters on the planet down on our heads.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I gosh darn know you’re sorry! Just shut up about it! We all have to get through this together now.”

  Her words echoed in Horace’s mind as he looked down at his getup, at how ridiculous he looked. He was dressed to impress all right, but not the kind of impression he wanted to make. Nevertheless, all the wounds on his face from the many fights of the last few days made him look like a mighty rough customer.

  As he passed through the restaurant with Trask and the limo driver, the men straightened their posture and narrowed their eyes, the women clutched their companion’s arm or turned pale, staring.

  In a private dining room upstairs with no windows, Vincent greeted them with a big grin. “Fellas! Glad you could make it!” He gave Trask a manly embrace, then turned to Horace. After a glance up and down and a suppressed smirk, Vince embraced Horace like a long-lost brother.

  Vince was dressed like a fashion model ready for a magazine holo-shoot. Dark suit, pearlescent black shirt, chrome necktie, a flower in his lapel.

  “If I’da known this was a dress-up affair, I wouldn’t have had all my clothes blown up,” Horace said.

  Vince gestured for them to sit. “It’s been a day, right?”

  Charging to the forefront of Horace’s mind was the memory of a meeting that started not unlike this one, where he had asked Dmitri Mogilevich for a massive loan, with
out which he could never have rebuilt himself for his big comeback. And how charming and amiable Dmitri had been, and how Horace had known it was bullshit all along, but he went forward anyway.

  Dmitri had been a brutal, self-indulgent sadist, a chip off the old block. How could Horace believe that a mere difference of ethnicity would make Vincent any less so? What if Trask was just as willfully blind as Horace had been?

  At that moment, a woman’s silhouette emerged in the entrance and slid into the room like liquid elegance. A stunning black dress cascaded delicately over a shape made to be devoured. Her flashing eyes like deep-roasted almonds seemed to take in the room with a single glance, matched the olive-smooth skin and subtly sparkling dress. Raven hair gleamed, spilling over her toned shoulders. Within a second, she had supplanted a Bollywood starlet among the top three most beautiful women Horace had ever encountered. She moved with a grace and poise usually reserved for old black-and-white movie stars. Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Ingrid Bergman, the goddesses who had enthralled him as a teenage boy knee-deep in his father’s classic movie collection, all before him now reincarnated into one being. She made Lilly—and even Amanda—look like Nebraska farm girls.

  If this goddess was one of Vincent’s cheap squeezes, Horace was going to throw up on his plaid trousers.

  “Meet Roxanne,” Vincent said. “Roxy, this is Norman Trask, a friend and business associate.”

  Trask’s eyes bulged like dinner plates, and his cigar dangled loosely from his lip.

  She nodded with a faint, implacable smile.

  Vincent said, “And this is—”

  “Hammer Harkness, of course.” Her voice, deep, full, and vibrant, carried an accent that sounded perhaps Eastern European.

  Horace held her dark, smoky gaze and gently squeezed her offered hand. Where in the hell had someone like her come from? And what was she doing here? And why the hell did he have to meet her dressed like the village idiot?

  Trask said, “Vince, where in the hell did you find her? Lady, what are you doing with this guy?”

  Vincent said, “Roxy and I go back a long way. Monaco, wasn’t it?”