Lukas Franks PI

1

Detective Sergeant Viktor ‘Shorty’ Dahl threw a bleary red-eyed look at the uniform standing at the door and flashed his ID at the cop’s scanner.  It was Thursday 4:45 in the zKuntin AM.  Crap time.  Too late for late night, too early for morning.  DS Dahl popped another wakeUp and downed it with take-out Turkish from Samad’s down at the corner, extra large, four sugars.  His dark trench coat and dark fedora were damp from a soggy September mist.

“Hey, could be worse…” the uniform said as he confirmed the detective’s ID, “…DS Dahl, sir.  This one’s disappeared.  No fucking body, no fucking mess.”  

Yeah, the cop was right.  No fucking body, no fucking mess.  But then, disappearances could be creepy. 

DS Dahl removed his hat, instinctively stooped his lean two-meter frame at the door, and entered the flat.  Mid-century bolshy.  Utilitarian.  Plaster flaking off the walls, off the ceiling.  Mould along the window frames.  He’d been in these places.  In fact, he lived in one, ever since the divorce.  His ex-wife got to keep the flat in the posh doorman building, but it was her money, so what the hell.

DS Dahl looked around.  It’s the stuff that tells the story.  The place was a mess, but it was a boho mess.  The furniture was well worn and looked comfortable.  No bourgeois attempt to impress.  No tacky installment-plan couch fronting a monster sound system and vidScreen.  Instead, ancient vinyl LPs in plastic crates lined a wall.  A doghouse bass occupied a corner.  There was the smell of turpentine and linseed oil.  Artwork—sketches, oils—covered the walls.  Unframed paintings were stacked in a corner.  DS Dahl nodded in appreciation.  Some of what he saw was good shit.  He was into art.

“Please,” DS Dahl offered his hipflask, “have one.”  A woman with a tattooed cheek was sitting across the kitchen table.  She fondled her lip rings with her tongue.  The big yellow happy face on her t-shirt stared blankly.  She grabbed the hipflask and regarded the detective with cynical bioKolor silver eyes.

Yeah, so he looked like a drowned sprawl rat—rumpled suit, collar open, tie cockeyed, his face wearing that boozed-out no-sleep haven’t-shaved-in-days look.  But it had nothing to do with it being 4:50 in the zKuntin AM.  DS Dahl was a denizen of the night.  He always looked like a drowned sprawl rat. 

DS Dahl downed some Turkish.  His dark eyes regarded the woman.  She took a swig of the hipflask.  Good.  A mellow witness is a talking witness.

“Give me a sec while I check out the paperwork,” he said.  Might as well catch up while the booze hit.  He slipped on his eyeVid glasses, tapped an icon on his wristApp and the case evidenceLog entries appeared floating above the kitchen table.

    Missing person’s name, George Stein, citizen ID number 15CZ-670-93-8856, thirty-eight, works at a Bata shoe store, dark brown hair, bioKolor silver eyes, one meter eighty tall, etc. etc.—he skipped the rest of the personal details.  Shares flat with sister Jana Stein (sitting across from him), she’s thirty-two, works at a BillaHypermarket, also bioKolor silver eyes, etc. etc., he skipped the rest of that too.  Bottom line: Jana called in that her brother was missing at 4:12 AM.  The precinct eyeT immediately ran a check of all local CCTV cam footage—the hall, the lift, the lobby downstairs, the neighbourhood streets.  George had entered the flat at 3:36 AM.  No trace of him anywhere on any CCTV vid after that.  There were no obvious glitches, no obvious interruptions in the vids.  The copBot instantly flagged the case.  It meant that either George had never walked out of the flat, or the vids had been altered.  George wasn’t in the flat, so, unless George just vanished into thin air, the vids must have been altered.  Altered professionally because they were seamless.  This was why Detective Sergeant Viktor ‘Shorty’ Dahl, Serious Crimes Division, was here at this shit hour—a kidnapping—disappearance—abduction—whatever, take your pick, with vids altered and no trace of anything left behind.

DS Dahl quickly scrolled through the rest of the evidenceLog: no signs of a break in.  No obvious signs of foreign bio-data or other contaminants.  Yeah, so forensics hadn’t shown up yet, but given that the vids were probably wiped, chances were good they’d find nothing.  That was about it.  Except for an image of George caught by CCTV the day before: goatee, earrings, tattooed hands lighting a smoke, black beret cocked at a rakish angle.

DS Dahl caught Jana’s gaze through his eyeVid glasses.  “Jana, that’s your name, right?  Jana?”

Jana swept back a strand of long silver hair that matched her eyes and nodded her head imperceptibly.  DS Dahl noticed paint smears on her fingers.

“Thanks for your patience.  I’m Detective Sergeant Dahl, but everyone calls me Shorty.”  He grabbed some Yeheyuans from his pocket, soft pack, tapped one out and offered it.  “Fag?”

Jana reached for it.  “Thanks, Shorty,” she said it with more than a hint of sarcasm.

DS Dahl didn’t give a shit about her ‘tude.  He’d been around long enough. He flicked his lighter, lit hers first.  He took a long drag.  “Who’s artwork?” he gestured with his cigarette, “yours?”

“Yeah, mine,” Jana said, “most of it.”

“Good stuff.”

“You’re buttering me up,” her voice more resigned than offended.

“No, seriously, I like it,” DS Dahl held Jana’s silver eyes.  They were hard to read.   “Who plays that bass in the corner?”

“George.”  This time Jana’s voice was barely a whisper. He felt sorry for her.   She seemed alone, lost.  He took a drag on his cigarette.  There was something about Jana that reminded him of his ex-wife.  Before she went ape-shit and threw him out.

“Look, I’m sorry he’s disappeared, but in order to try and find him I have to ask questions.  Let’s get the paper-pusher shit out of the way: I hereby inform you that this interview is being recorded, you have the right to ask me to turn the recording off at any moment, you are not required to answer any question that you don’t want to...” Etc. etc.  The law said all police-citizen encounters had to be video recorded.  Supposedly to keep everyone honest.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”  Jana gestured impatiently with her cigarette.  She knew it was bullshit.  Any low-grade eyeT nerd could do vid deepFake.

“Can you verify that this is your brother?”  DS Dahl tapped his wristApp and a holo of the CCTV shot of George appeared floating above it.

Jana nodded.

“And that you and George share this flat.”

Jana nodded again.

“Thank you.  Now I’d just like to verify what you’ve already told uniform,” DS Dahl scanned the file on his eyeVid, “George came home at about three thirty AM, shortly after that you went out to get some groceries, and you were gone no more than fifteen minutes?” 

“I don’t know…” Jana shrugged, “maybe...something like that.  I don’t check the time all that much.  I just went down to Samad’s to get milk, it’s over at the corner.  Open 24-7,” her cigarette indicated the window, “you can see it.”

“Yeah, I know.”  DS Dahl raised the cup of Turkish and drained it to the mud.  He put it down, reluctantly hauled himself up and trudged to the window.  Regulations.  Jana mentioned it, so he was required to record it with his eyeVid: raining hard now, rundown last-century proletariat housing, glowing streetlights reflected in puddles, soaked concrete etched in graffiti.  On the corner, in-your-face relentlessly flashing letters: Samad’s 24/7—Fresh Turkish—Donuts—Sandwiches— Samad’s 24/7—Tobacco—Beer—Wine—Samad’s 24/7—American Hot Dogs... the harsh garish colours bouncing off the wet street.

DS Dahl returned to the table and eased himself back into the chair.  “So that would have been at around four AM?”

“Yeah, I guess, if you say so…more or less…”

“Do you always shop so late at night?”

“It’s open 24-7, isn’t it?”

“Okay, so you go to Samad’s, you come back, and no George.  How do you know he didn’t just walk out?”

“Yeah, with no shoes, no coat…”  Fuck-you scorn in her voice.  Yeah, she had a point.

“Hey, I have to ask.  When you got back, there was nothing out of the ordinary?  Nothing out of place?”

“I told the cop, nothing…just the digital clocks…there’s one on the stove and one on the microwave.  They were blinking like the power had gone out.”

DS Dahl looked.  His eyeVid got a shot of the digital displays incessantly flashing 00:00.  Maybe it was important, maybe it wasn’t.  Both appliances were ancient, no web connection, and this is what they did if the power was interrupted.  But then the grid would have flagged a power interruption—unless it was only a temporary break in a circuit or two in the flat.

DS Dahl stared at the smoke slowly curling up from his cigarette and reflected.  He’d have the eyeT nerds check for power fluctuations.  He’d also have them go through the local CCTV vids and look for suspicious routing, traces of digital dust indicating a hack, loops, splices, whatever.  But given that the vids looked seamless, if they were altered to erase George, it was clearly a professional job, done by someone who possessed, or could afford, the necessary talent.  Which implied the gov, a corp, organized crime, or some hacker collective.  But then, why the hell would any of them want to kidnap a nobody?  Were CivDef operatives scumHoovering to satisfy some contractual arrest quota?  No, that made no sense—too much effort was involved here, not worth it for a zKuntin quota. 

But if it wasn’t scumHoovering, had George been disappeared by CivDef?  Was there more to him, and maybe Jana, than met the eye?  If that was the case, the whole thing would be classified way up in nosebleed territory and digging into it off limits, even for a DS in the Serious Crimes Division.  If said DS wanted to keep his job he’d have to turn in a whitewash blaming CCTV system malfunction and whatever other bullshit was needed to paper over the incident and make it go away.

“So tell me about George.”  DS Dahl flicked cigarette ashes into his used coffee cup.

“He’s my brother.  What else do you want to know?”

“Look, if you don’t help me out, there’s not much I can do.”

“Why don’t you just check the fucking CCTV you’ve got all over the fucking place?” 

“I did.  He never left this place.”

Jana’s silver eyes flashed you’re shittin’ me.  “So you’re telling me that he just vanished in a puff of smoke?  Or that I’m lying?”

“No, of course not.  What I’m suggesting is that someone messed with the CCTV, and if I’m to find out who and why, it would help to know about George.  I understand he works at a Bata shoe store?”

“Yeah, his day job.  It’s in the New Town,” Jana waved her cigarette in the general direction, “near Charles Square.”

“You don’t strike me as the nine-to-five sort.  Is he?”

 “Yeah, sure,” voice drenched in sarcasm, “nine to five, he lives for that shit.  Look, I said it’s a day job.  Other than the money, he doesn’t give a fuck.  He’s into music.  Big into trad jazz.  Obsessed.  He doesn’t give a zKuntin rat’s ass about anything else, not money, not politics...but the music bizz is hard going.  I mean, he has a regular gig at the Rue B, every Saturday…but it doesn’t pay much…he needs the day job.”

“Does he have any enemies?”

Jana shrugged but shook her head no.

“Politics?”

Jana took a last drag and angrily flicked the butt into his used coffee cup.  “I said he doesn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Has he borrowed money?”

“Look around.  Does it look like it?”

“Maybe he’s addicted to something expensive. Gambling?”

Jana glared at DS Dahl.

“Drugs?”

“Fuck you, Shorty, everyone does drugs.”

Yeah, no kidding.  “I meant shit that fucks you up and you’re hooked for real.  Like shabu, or trank.”

“No.”

DS Dahl took a last drag and indifferently dropped the cigarette butt into his coffee cup, on top of hers.

“Any regular hangouts?”

“Yeah, some…” Jana thought for a moment, “Ahh, Serenity…Ëvazion…The Pink Nowhere…Rat’s Ass…”

DS Dahl’s eyeVid identified each one.  Rat’s Ass, Serenity and The Pink Nowhere were in Real.  Ëvazion was virtual.

“And what about you, Jana?  Any problems in your life?”

“I just paint.”

A tear slowly coursed down Jana’s cheek, leaving a streak of black mascara.

“Look…I’m sorry about George…I’ll do what I can.”  DS Dahl picked up the hipflask.  “More?”

Jana nodded.  He handed her the flask.  “I have to stick around until forensics show up.”  He checked on his eyeVid.  “It shouldn’t be long.”   

2

Three flights up, no elevator, but the rent was cheap.  I’d hung my shingle a month ago.  Two-timing cheaters from the posh classes were my bread and butter.  I got paid by lawyers.  Yeah, it was a living, but not why I signed up for this business.  I was ready to move up.

My break came on a Thursday in September.  I was in my inner office.  The five o’clock news droned in the background.

“…despite this, the dispute over water is fast escalating between the two countries.

And now, somewhat lighter news.  It seems that last Tuesday a band of orcs, backed up by a dragon, robbed the central bank in Avalon Five.  Yes, you heard right, a robbery by a band of orcs and a dragon, but in case you’re wondering, Avalon Five is a game and the robbery took place in SIM.  Nevertheless, real money was stolen, a cool twenty-five million EuroCredits.  Net police are investigating…”

Weird story.  Got my attention.  Then the buzzer rang.  I killed the news.

A minute later Anoushka came in and closed the door behind her.  She was fiftyish, rotund.  Real good at hiding chewing gum in her cheek.  And at running a business.  A class act.  She leaned on the door, a twinkle in her brown eyes.

        “There’s a gentleman to see ya,” she said, “I gotta hunch about this one.”  

“Then by all means send him in.”

Anoushka opened the door and stepped out into the outer office.  “Mr. Franks will see ya,” she said.

“Thank you very much.”  I heard a fast clipped Indian accent. 

Anoushka ushered him in.  “Mr. Franks, this is Drax.”

One look and yeah, definitely not Joe Average.

“Call me Lukas.”  I stood up.

He was in his twenties, plumpy, South Asian, and looked mad as a hatter, as if he held his finger in an electric socket, or maybe he hadn’t slept in a week and was cruising on bennies.  Dark bugged out eyes, dark circles under them, dark disheveled hair.  But the thing that grabbed my attention was the chip on his temple, one of those newfangled mind-net interface devices.  Roughly the size of a ten-carat diamond, it sparkled like one, and cost about as much.  Cutting-edge flash.  Not many of them out there—hell, I’d never seen one before.  Not in Real, anyway. 

“Can I take your coat, Drax?” Anoushka asked. It was cashmere, long, black, a genuine PradaZi. 

“Oh, no, thank you very much, I don’t mind to keep it on.”  His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets. 

“Suit yourself,” Anoushka said and then looked at me, “if you don’t mind…” she gestured toward the front door.

“No, no, of course, go home Anoushka, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”  She gave me a wink and shut the door behind her.

“I’m Lukas.”  I extended my hand.

“Of course, I know you are Lukas, Mr. Lukas man.”  Drax’s hands remained stuffed deep in the pockets.

Okay, an aspy geek?  Maybe Switch?  I’d never met one, but Switch were electroWizards who used the new-fangled chips to meld their mind with the dataStream—a direct brain-to-net connection, supposedly, they claimed, a seriously hardcore in your face experience.  I figured any Switch must be totally out there, which would explain Drax.

“Please, take a load off.”  I gestured with my unmet already extended hand to the armchair beside my desk.  I knew he wasn’t dissing me.  He was just weird.  I made myself comfortable in my swivel chair.

Drax eased himself down and I waited for him to say something.  Instead, he just sat there looking like he was at the bus terminal killing time.

“So, Drax?  Just Drax…?” I asked.

“Absolutely, man, just Drax.”

 “So…what can I do for you, Drax?”

“It is my partner, man.  He’s missing.”

“Oh?” I leaned back in my chair, “how long?”

“I haven’t seen him since he left the loft last Tuesday.”

That was two days ago.

“And have you reported this to the police?”

“No, Mr. Lukas, man.  I would just as soon if at all possible that the police are not to be involved.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“Okay, got it.  So what’s his name?  Your partner’s?”

“He is Ritter, Ritter Beck.”

I entered the name on my app and specified a hundred kilometer radius.  Five Ritter Beck holos appeared floating above my desk.

“Is he one of these?” I asked.

“This one,” he pointed, “indeed, totally.”

Foppish Thin White Duke, down to the Gauloises.  Tasteful perfect make-up.  Stunning delicate features—handsome, if not downright beautiful.  A chip sparkled on his temple.  Conspicuous Switch bling, like Drax.

“Now, just to clarify, would Ritter be a business partner, or a significant other partner?”

“Business, strictly business.  You see Mr. Lukas man, the thing is, I am a software developer and I work with Ritter.  He is brilliant, absolutely totally brilliant.  His grasp of fractal programming is unbelievable.”

I had no idea what the hell fractal programming was.  But if Ritter was a programmer, unlike Drax, he was no geeky nerd.  He was a beguiling ultraKool fashionista.

“You said you last saw him when he left the loft.  Whose loft is this?”

“It is a company loft—it is paid for as a business expense.  We use it to live and work.”

“Do either of you have another place?”

“I do not, and I assume Ritter doesn’t, but I am not positively sure.”

“So Ritter lives there with you.”

“Yes, absolutely.  It’s a big loft, room for anyone I’m working with, if they want to live there.”

“And where is this loft?”

“It is in Redcent, Mr. Lukas, man.”

“Redcent?”  I raised an eyebrow.  Redcent’s dangerous, a ratHole populated by bottomFeeders and sharks.

“In Potters Bar,” Drax said, giving me a look as if that explained it.

Potters Bar?  I drew a blank.  Then it hit me.  It was a rumour I’d heard: a squatter’s ‘hood somewhere in Redcent, a ‘hood full of electroWizards and wacked-out technoAnarchists who’d dropped out of Real.

By six-thirty Drax had scribbled his hancock on the dotted line and I had a contract.  I walked him to the door, went back to my desk, put my feet up, and texted Lars, an eyeT over at Mitsuhu Corp.  He was good at hacking and he owed me one.  A couple of months ago I’d saved his ass from some lowlife muddahFukkas—long story, but bottom line, he wasn’t exactly innocent and hacking had something to do with it.  I had a talk with the muddahFukkas and explained things.  OK, maybe I also flattened some noses.  MuddahFukkas tend to be a bellicose bunch, especially when they’re high on the bathtub shit they sell, but I convinced them it was in their interest to leave Lars alone.  So, yeah, he owed me one, and now was as good time as any to start cashing in.  I sent him the pic of Ritter and asked him scour the net and find the most recent CCTV vid of him.  I then poured myself a stiff one, lit a Lucky, put my feet up, and waited, hoping Lars would come through.

About an hour later I got my answer: an encryptied link to some droneCam footage from Redcent (in case you’re asking, droneCam because most of the fixed CCTV cams in Redcent are banjaxed—you know, duct-taped, spray-painted, stolen, whatever).

 It was footage from Tuesday night.  I hit play.  Lars had it all cued up.  At 19:52 Ritter, in full Thin White Duke regalia—Armani suit, silk shirt open at the collar, gold watch, gleaming chip—walks into the frame.  He stops in front of a bricked-up window next to a pink steel door, leans on the wall, taps a Gauloise, flips his gold Zippo and lights up the fag.  The rising smoke is washed in a fuchsia glow from a huge neon sign floating above, ‘This Is Nowhere’ in flowing script, a neon arrow pointing down at the door.  The Pink Nowhere, a retro LGBTQ+ club, the chatBot informed me.

Ritter hangs alone with his Gauloise for a while—maybe waiting for someone?  People pass by, some enter the club, but no one acknowledges him.  He finishes his smoke, flips the butt, and enters the pink door at 20:09.  That was it.  The vid continued on up to 06:00 (when the drone ran out of juice), but no more Ritter.  He never came out.  Unless it was after 6AM.  But I didn’t think so.  I had a hunch.

I highlighted Ritter and ran the image through recognition software.  I poured myself another one and waited for the AI to do its thing.  It didn’t take it long before it popped up a close-up of a grrrl: messed-up ice-blonde hair, sheer white lace skirt and a black leather biker jacket.  I zoomed in on her face.  Pale, peach lipstick, smoky eye-shadow.  And a chip just like Ritter’s.  She’s leaning-in close to a dude in shades, goatee, a beret cocked at a rakish angle.  They look intimate.  They’re in a crowd chilling in front of The Pink Nowhere, and it’s 02:04.  I saved the faces and hit play.  They chat, smoke, touch playfully, and leave together at 02:26.

Was the grrrl Ritter?  The AI thought so.  So did my hunch.  If so, I had to act fast.  That had been Wednesday in the AM.  Now was Thursday in the PM.  The trail was still warm.  Time to pound the pavement.

3

Wires lit by dim streetlights cast shadowy patterns on the murky potholed street.  My car slowly followed the tram tracks into Redcent.  Yeah, it was an old Peugeot clunker, but it was a ratrod clunker.  It looked like shit but drove like an Aston.  That was the point.  In Redcent, anything that doesn’t look like a shit gets stolen.  Or trashed just for giggles.

It was about eight-thirty when my Peugeot parked itself in front of a tittyBar.  I could see The Pink Nowhere up ahead on the corner.  I checked my piece and made sure the chamber was loaded.  Heckler & Koch nine-millimeter, fifteen rounds.  You never know in Redcent, and yes, I had a license.  I opened the door.  Rats squealed as they scattered in the gutter.  I stepped out into shifting shades of pale light thrown by a crappy holo of a topless grrrl twerking above the tittyBar’s door. 

Across the street hardcore DubaiDubStep pounded out of a monster boombox.  A bunch of Razr4Kids snorting krokodil or some such shit hung out on trashed furniture in front of a decaying car.  They glared at me and vogued aggro.  I smiled ‘make my day’ and casually opened my jacket, displaying my piece in the light of the twerking tittyBar holo.  I didn’t want them fucking with my ride.  They got the message.

Nobody hanging out in the rosy glow of The Pink Nowhere this early.  A battered armored car slowly rumbled by.  Cop patrol.  I pushed the pink steel door and walked in.  Fuschia lights lit a magenta stair leading down to the club.  Dark Blue played in the background, the sound low.  The bar, off to the side, was also lit in fuchsia and magenta.  Both booze and dreamWater served.  Licensing regulations said one or the other.  But that was on paper and this was Redcent.

It was still early and the place was mostly empty.  To the side of the bar, a lounge area.  Low moody lighting.  Wing chairs, a few sofas, all plush elegantly faded high-Victorian.  A few seduscious boner-generating babes were sprawled out on the furniture.  Hookers?  Tranz?  Who the fuck knew in this place.  They looked stunning and they looked out of it.  Tripping out on dreamWater no doubt. 

I went up to the bar.  The intoxicologist (bartender-slash-dreamWater mixer) was wiping a glass.  Built like a Bulgarian weightlifter, she had tattooed arms as thick as my thighs, a pink bouffant, and cartoon slut makeup.  Her glittery low-cut silver sleeveless cocktail gown displayed a bootylicios silicone cleavage.

I parked my butt on a stool.  There was no one else at the bar.  The intoxicologist gave me a look.

“You don’t look like you belong here, honey,” she said.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” was my comeback.  Hey, lame, but I try.

“In that case, what’ll it be, sailor?”  She gave me a wink and sashayed up.

“Laphroaig, neat.  My name’s Lukas, by the way.”

“I’m Harley,” she said as she poured, “Harley Quinn.”

I was about to quip ‘in that case I’m Batman’ but I bit my tongue.  Maybe she didn’t have the comic book character’s figure, but she looked just as dangerous.  Probably kept a .45 under the bar and doubled as a bouncer.

She placed the drink in front of me.  “That’ll be fifteen.  Ten if you got fold.”

“Thanks, Harley.”  I pulled fifteen in fold and plunked it down.  “Keep the change.  By the way, ever seen this person?”

I showed her Ritter’s Thin White Duke holo, floating above my wrist app.

“Yeah, comes in every once in a while,’ sidelong glance at me, “why?”

“His name’s Ritter.  Ritter Beck.  Ring a bell?”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Maybe.”

“How about this one, ever seen her?”

I showed her a holo of the grrrl with ice-blonde hair and the black leather biker jacket.

“Yeah.  Also comes in once in a while.”

“Ever seen them together?

“You’re asking too many questions.”  She lit a cigarette and puckered hot pink lips slowly blew smoke in my face.  “You, a cop or something?”

I ignored the diss and flashed my best suave smile, “No, I’m a PI.”

“Oh, a dick?”  She licked her lips and slowly leaned in to look down at my crotch.

“I’m not impressed,” she straightened up sounding disappointed.  I wasn’t.  Her silicone valley cleavage was centimeters from my face.

“Look Harley, I’m just trying to trace Ritter.  He’s disappeared.”

She shrugged who gives a shit, took a drag, and said nothing.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a CCTV in this place?”  I looked around.  The book said all bars are required to have CCTV, connected directly to big brother over at LibertyCorp.

“It’s broken.”

Yeah, this was a Redcent joint, so maybe it was broken.  But I didn’t buy it.  This was a fancy Redcent joint, which means mob-run, and in this ‘hood that means Russians—the Organitskaya.  The Organitskaya don’t fuck with security.

“So when was the last time you saw either one of them?”  I plunked down a fifty in fold.

“Tuesday night,” she grabbed the fifty and shoved it down her bra.  “The dude comes in most weeks.”  She put her cigarette out.   “He usually has me mix up an Orchid, then he just sits there,” she gestured at the lounge area, “all by himself, eyes closed, for hours.  He’s a chipHead, probably Switch, so I figure he’s off deepFreaking somewhere.”

“Tuesday night, did you see him leave?”

“The place was packed.  I don’t keep track of everyone.”

“And what about the grrrl?”

“What about her?”

“Was she here Tuesday night?”

“Yeah, she was here.  Later.”

“Were they ever together?  Or just here at the same time?”

No answer.  She had glasses to wipe.  I figured my quarter had run out.  I plunked another fifty.

“Does she have a name?”

“Calls herself Luna.”

“Is she a chipHead too?”

“She’s got a chip, but she’s probably not Switch.  She’s different.  Sultry.  Flirts a lot.”

“Do you know this guy?”

I flashed a holo of the dude in shades and a goatee.

“Sure, his name’s George.  He’s pretty popular around here.  I think he’s a musician or something.”

“What’s his last name?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Are there any private rooms in this place, you know, where private things can happen?”

Harley Quinn shrugged and turned around.  I’d probably raised a delicate subject.  Or else my quarter had run out again.  Harley had just cost me a hundred in fold, but Drax was paying expenses.  Besides, I figured I had found out what happened to Ritter.  He was Luna.  Yeah, their personalities were different, but hell, maybe Luna felt free and Ritter didn’t.  I downed my Laphroaig, thanked Harley Quinn, and headed up the stairs.

As soon as I stepped outside a big meaty hand grabbed my shoulder.  I was about to spin and break the asshole’s arm but the cold touch of metal on the back of my head convinced me to change my mind.

“Don’t turn, keep walking.” Russian accent.  My gut said Organitskaya.  Not good.

4

I couldn’t see them.  They knew what they were doing.  They stayed behind me as they hustled me down the street and into an empty lot.  They shoved me through weeds and garbage and then pushed me face first into a wall.  The meaty hand grabbed my coat and spun me around.  Now I could see them: a big gorilla and a weasel, both in expensive suits.  The weasel had a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum thrust in my face.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” I asked.  I faked a smile and slowly raised my hands.  Hey, I know when I’m beat. 

The gorilla stepped up and punched me in the stomach.  It felt like a zKuntin juiced sledgehammer.  Voltage zapped my body.  I doubled over in pain.  “Ouch,” I grunted, hoping it sounded sarcastic.  It probably didn’t.

The gorilla straightened me up and threw me against the wall.  I noticed he had a bionic right arm.  It looked to be state of the art cybernetics.  It explained the sledgehammer power of his punches, and the electric shock when the fist connected—undoubtedly a teslaFist.  Popular mobster option.

The gorilla reached in, took my Heckler & Koch, popped the clip, pocketed it, and tossed the gun.

The weasel regarded me with viper eyes.  He kept the magnum shoved in my face.  “Boris, please explain to gentleman what his problem is.”

 Boris the gorilla stuck his face into mine.  He had cruel beady eyes, a scar running from his forehead to his chin, and a nose that had clearly been broken too many times.  “Your problem is,” I smelled cigarettes and vodka, “you ask too many questions.”

“Hey, it’s what I’m paid to do,” I answered, doing my best to channel nonchalant.

“He’s trying to be funny,” the weasel said, “show him how much we laugh.” 

Boris’ teslaFist slammed into my stomach again.  I doubled over again. Fuck me! Fuck me!  I saw stars.  Boris pulled me up and threw me against the wall again.  I saw more stars.

“Why are you looking for Ritter?” the weasel asked.

“I told you,” I managed between gasps, “I’m a PI.  It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I’m looking for him.”

“Stop looking,” the weasel said, “and never come to Pink Nowhere again.  Understand?  We make sure you do.”  He holstered his magnum and grabbed me from behind.  His hands felt like a vice.  Strong for a weasel.

Boris began to work me over.  Every punch another electric sledgehammer.  I couldn’t breathe. I felt nauseous.  But hey, there was an upside.  I got to keep my teeth.  Body blows only.  I was just being politely reminded.  Still, the blows and the shocks were taking their toll.  I was in a daze, I couldn’t see straight.  But I’d learned how to take shit in the Unit.  Close down your mind.

Eventually Boris stopped pummeling me.  The weasel let me let go.  I dropped to the ground.  I felt like shit.  I felt like puking.

“You understand now, yes?”

“Yeah, you bet,” I managed between groans, “never get blindsided by Russian gorillas.”  Sometimes I can’t help being a wise guy.  I regretted it instantly.

“Still funny,” the weasel said.  “Pick him up, Boris.”

Boris was about to when a pistol shot rang out.

A tall thin dude wearing a dark trench coat and fedora stood there regarding us with dangerous dark eyes.  He had that booze-no-sleep haven’t-shaved-in-days look.  “That’s enough,” he said.  There was something in his voice that telegraphed no bullshit.  His gun, a cop standard issue SIG Sauer, was pointed at the Russians.

“Shorty,” the weasel said with an unctuous smile, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“I bet you weren’t.”  DS Dahl didn’t sound amused.   “And it’s DS Shorty.  What the fuck are you two up to?”

“We’re only teaching lesson to gentleman.  But don’t worry, no damage.  See, not even scratch on him.”

“Vasili, Boris,” DS Dahl shook his head as he slowly walked up, gun still pointed at the Russians, “how many times have I told you, not in public, and not when I’m around.  I really don’t want to have to haul you in for this kind of shit.  It’s not worth the zKuntin paperwork.  Anyway,” he looked down at me, “it seems like you’ve had enough fun for now.”

Grunting and panting, I managed to haul myself up on wobbly legs, using the wall for support.  “Thanks,” I croaked, “that was getting uncomfortable.”

“You are wise guy,” Boris growled at me, “don’t forget lesson.”

“Enough of this shit,” DS Dahl’s eyes were menacing, “get lost.”

“Okay, okay, of course,” Vasili said, “take it easy.  We’ll see you around, DS Shorty.  Stay out of trouble.”

With that, the two Russians walked off.

DS Dahl regarded me.  “So what the fuck was that all about?”

“It seems I ask too many questions,” I wheezed, “I’m Franks, by the way, Lukas Franks, PI.  I guess I owe you one.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Dahl,” he put his hand out, “but everyone calls me Shorty.”

“Yeah, shorty, I get it,” I said as I shook his hand looking up at him.  He was a good fifteen cm taller than I am.

I pulled out my app, hit the flashlight icon, and found my Heckler & Koch in the crap amongst the weeds.

“Nice piece,” Shorty said as he eyed it, “got a license?”

“Yeah, I got a license, but empty it’s not much use.”  I managed a smile and shoved it into my shoulder holster.

Shorty slipped on an eyeVid and looked at me, no doubt to get my mug nice and centered in the cam.  Through the lenses I could see his eyes go out of focus.  Probably reading my files.

“Yeah, you check out,” he said about a minute later, “licensed PI, licensed to carry concealed, the whole nine yards.”  He took the eyeVid off.   “Here, I think you need this.”  He handed me a hip flask.  I caught a glimpse of post-booze blues in his hard eyes.

“Thanks.”  I took a good swig.  It was bourbon.  Not bad.

“You’re lucky they were just playing around,” Shorty said.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, still got all my parts.  They’ve just been re-arranged a bit.”

Shorty pulled out a pack of Yeheyuans, took one, and offered me one.

“Thanks.”

“You’re not dead and you still have a face.”  Shorty lit my fag.  “They must have liked you.”

“Could have fooled me.” I took a drag.  It felt good.

“So you were asking questions.  In The Pink Nowhere.”

“Yeah.”

“That was stupid.  You’re new at this game, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” What was I going to say?  I was new at this game.

“Lesson one—you don’t walk into an Organitskaya joint asking questions.  The Pink Nowhere is an Organitskaya joint.”

“Thanks.  I’ll remember.”

“So what were you asking about?”

“I’m looking for someone who was last seen in The Pink Nowhere.”

“Who?”

I figured I’d play ball.  Shorty seemed like an okay guy.  Besides, I needed to build up contacts, and hell, you never know.  Still, I couldn’t tell him about Ritter.  Drax wanted the cops out of it.  But George was another matter.  I flashed the image of the dude in shades and a goatee.

Shorty stared at the holo. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Why do you ask?’

“No reason.”

Yeah, sure, no reason.

We walked up to the edge of the lot.

“Okay, that’s George Stein and I’m lookin’ for him,” Shorty said.  He must have thought about it and decided to play too.

“You’re shittin’ me.”  My mouth dropped open.

“No, I’m not.  Dude disappeared sometime in the wee hours Wednesday morning.  Why are you looking for him?  Who hired you?  His sister sure as hell doesn’t look like she can afford a private dick.”

“Hey, you know I can’t disclose client shit.”

“Well, in case you care, his disappearance smells like a professional job.”

“And you want to know if I know anything about that?”

“No,” Shorty looked at me.  Again, I caught that post-booze blues in the hard eyes.  “What I meant is, watch your ass.”

“Thanks, but the truth is, I’m not looking for George.  I’m trying to find someone else, someone last seen with him.  But text me your contact info.  If I hear something I’ll let you know.”

We exchanged contact texts, shook on it, and parted ways.

5

It was nine-thirty.  My Peugeot was still there.  So were the Razr4Kids.  This time they didn’t notice me.  The krokodil or whatever shit they were on had kicked in.  They were in zombie mode.  Just as well because I could barely walk.

I eased myself into the driver’s seat.  I could’ve sworn I’d been run over by a garbage truck.  I needed a rest.  I needed to get my shit together.  I needed to think.  I hit Home and the autoDrive took over.  I leaned back and closed my eyes.

I wasn’t sure I was buying Shorty’s lesson one.  Well, not entirely.  My hunch was that the goons hadn’t worked me over just because I was in The Pink Nowhere asking questions.  I figured they worked me over because I was asking questions about Ritter.  So what did the Organitskaya want with Ritter?  Or was it Luna?  Did they get it was the same person?

Luna had left The Pink Nowhere less than forty-eight hours ago.  Did she know the Organitskaya were looking for her?  Was she hoping to throw them off?  Is that why she went in as Ritter and out as Luna?  Where would she have gone?

Shorty was right about one thing—I was new at this game.  I didn’t have a lot of contacts.  I had to play the hand I had.  I knew Abdul.  I figured that at this point I could do worse than check with him.  Long shot, but maybe he’d heard something.

I hadn’t seen Abdul in a while, but I’d met him in Baghdad when I was in the Unit.  We fought together.  I saved his ass more than once.  Back then he was into running drugs and guns.  No one gave a zKunt because he was on our side and he knew people.  He had connections.  Always knew the score.  His intel kept us a step ahead of the opposition.  Unfortunately, in the end our side lost, so he had to get his ass the fuck out of Baghdad.  He was given a passport and credits to start over again.  He did.  That was five years ago.  Now, from a falafel joint on the wrong side of the tracks, he was running  ‘community services’ operations.  Meaning protection rackets, loan sharking, crap like that.  Some things just don’t change.  Abdul was still into shady shit, had a new set of connections and still knew the score.  And the best part was he owed me big time for saving his ass more than once.

It was a quarter after ten when I entered my flat.  The night was still young.  I popped a few pain killers, showered and changed.  I shoved a fresh clip into my Heckler and Koch and put an extra one in my pocket.  It was turning out to be that kind of night.

A cheap ‘Abdul’s Falafel’ flashing holo lit up the front.  The place was a narrow hole-in-the wall on a crap street in a crap ‘hood.  It was packed—five small tables crowded together, all full.  The cigarette smoke was dense as Delhi smog.  Abdul was manning the counter serving thick coffee and hard liquor.  I pasted a big smile on my face, walked in, and parked my butt on a stool at the counter.  It was the only empty spot.  I looked around—always good to get your bearings.  Nothing to worry about, other than the four bruisers crammed at a table in the back corner.  Abdul’s goons, no doubt.

“Abdul buddy, long time no see!”

Abdul was pouring a coffee.  He looked up.  “Not long enough, Lukas,” he grumbled.  He was slim, handsome, wore a silk Versace-Khan suit, shirt open, gold chain.  A foul smelling Bulgarian Sportak hung out the side of his sandpaper face.  “What do you want?  Every time I see you, you bring trouble.” 

“That was Baghdad.”

“Bullshit, here too.  I don’t need trouble.  I am making honest living.”

“Sure you are, which is exactly why I’m here.  I have a business proposition.  Ever hear of a club called The Pink Nowhere?”

“It’s in Redcent.  Place for fruits and trannies.”

“I hear the Organitskaya runs it.”

“It is possible.  Why do you care?”

“Got any contacts there?”

“In the Organitskaya?  Maybe.”

“Good.  So here’s my proposition.  See, I’m looking for someone, and they, that being the Organitskaya, suggested I stop looking.  I want to know why.”

“You should listen to them, Lukas.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just it, I can’t.  I have a client.  It’s my first real job.  I want to end up smelling like roses.”

“What job?”

“Didn’t I tell you?  I’m a private eye now.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.  I’m just starting, like I said, my first real job.”

“Lukas, my friend, it’s not healthy to mess with the Organitskaya.  If they say stop looking, stop looking.”

“I get it, but I want to know why.”

“And you want me to find out?  Screw that Lukas, I’m no infoWhore.”

“I never said you were.  But I do need to know.”

“And so you come to me…what do I get out of this?”

“Oh, I don’t know…let’s see…maybe I keep my mouth shut?”

“Lukas, you call that a deal?  If you’re going to be blackmailing me, tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”  Abdul glanced at his bruisers.

“Abdul, Abdul, who said anything about blackmailing?  That’s an ugly word.  Look, we go back.  As shady as you are, I’ve always trusted you, and I know you trust me.  Look at it this way.  You tell me things, it helps my business.  I don’t tell the cops things, it helps your business.  It’s like yin and yang, and we’re both happy, right?”

“Lukas, fuck that yin yang shit.  I don’t care how far back we go—if you ever rat on me, I swear I kill you.”

“Oh stop being a such bloody drama queen.  You still owe me, buddy.

Abdul gave me a dirty look.  He didn’t like to be reminded, but he knew I was right.  He was honourable when it came to these things.

“So who are you looking for?”

“First I need your word.  You keep this quiet.”

“Of course I keep quiet.  You think I want us to get flatlined by the Organitskaya?  Well, maybe in your case…”

“Very funny, Abdul.”  It was good enough for me.  Abdul always kept his word.  “His name’s Ritter Beck.” I showed him a photo—paper print.  Old fashioned but private that way.  “He’s a computer geek.”  I didn’t tell him about Luna.

“And you want to know why the Organitskaya are interested in him?”

“You got it.”

We shook on it.

“I get back to you, Lukas.”

6

I left Abdul’s at about ten forty-five and got into my clunker Peugeot.  My body still ached.  It felt good to lean back and relax.  Lean back and think.  So where would Luna have gone off to?  On the CCTV vid she’s seen leaving The Pink Nowhere with George at 2:26 AM.  Shorty said George disappeared in the wee hours, which had to have been after that.  Did she go with George to his flat, wherever that was?  Were they together when George disappeared?  Shorty didn’t mention anyone else, except for a sister, so I figured that at some point George and Luna had parted ways.  Call it a hunch.  Where would Luna, probably alone, go?  If she knew the Organitskaya were after her, she’d aim to disappear.  That probably meant some no-tell hotel.  And, assuming she didn’t hop an Uber, a no-tell not too far from The Pink Nowhere.  Within reasonable walking distance, anyway.

Got to start somewhere.  I figured I’d get Lars to check CCTVs for Luna in the morning, but meanwhile I’d Google hotels within reasonable walking distance of The Pink Nowhere and check them out.  It was Redcent, so it was mostly ratPads and flophouses that charged by the hour. They all had the same look: trashy outside, trashy inside.

Checking them out was like Groundhog Day, the same routine over and over.  Walk into the place, show the night clerk, the hookers, the dealers, whoever’s around, Luna’s picture, nobody’s seen her, back to my clunker, and on to the next slumrat hilton.

By four AM my eyes were bleary.  The next place on the list was over by the railroad tracks.  It was a coffinHotel—a stack of prefab capsules barely bigger than a mattress.  I entered it into the Peugeot’s satNav and popped another wakeUp.  The clunker’s auto drive kicked in.  I waited for the benny buzz to kick in.

By the time my clunker rolled to a stop the benny buzz had hit.  I was feeling good.  I got out the car.  I looked around.  Standard-issue railroad track ‘hood.  One side of the street was lined with graffiti-spattered dilapidated shitholes, half of them boarded-up.  Along the other side ran a chain-link fence with razor wire, and behind that, the coffinHotel.  The capsules, accessible by open-grate gangway corridors, were stacked on a four level pile of steel columns and beams.  The lighting was soccer stadium harsh.  The railroad tracks ran in deep shadows behind the hotel.  A freight train rumbled by.

  My clunker had parked itself in front of a gate with a buzzer.  I pressed the button.  A cam scanned me.  I got buzzed in.  Reception was in a trailer next to the stack of capsules.  I stepped into the trailer.  The air was thick with cigarette smoke.  The décor was plastic laminate cheesy.  The dude behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty.  Skinny but sinewy.  Tattoos up the wazoo.  Greased-back hair.  Too much mascara.

“What, another one?  What the fuck do you want?” he demanded.  Clearly not in a good mood.  Maybe I’d woken him up.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.  Yeah, he needed a lesson in manners, but, honestly, I didn’t give a zKunt.  It was Redcent.

His hand reached below the counter.

I was faster.  My Heckler and Koch pointed at his face.  “Very, very slowly put both hands on the counter.”

He glared at me, but did.

“Stay frozen.”  I kept my gun pointed at his mug, went around the counter.  “A cobra.  Nice.”  I picked it up.  “Do you know how to use it?”  Cobras are whip-like segmented stainless steel rods capable of delivering a 500 volt jolt.  Nasty.

“Fuck you.”

“Take it easy,” I said, and tossed the cobra on the floor.  “I’m Lukas, by the way.”  Maybe introductions would bring the aggro level down a notch.  “What’s your name?”  I holstered my gun and offered my hand.

“Axel.”  He shook my hand reluctantly, still glaring.

“Okay Axel, just a few questions and I’ll be out of you hair.”  I showed him Luna’s picture. “Seen her around?”

Bingo.  I could tell by his reaction that he had.

“Where is she?”

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d seen her.”

“You didn’t have to.   You’re not exactly a poker player.”

“Fuck you.”

“Jeez, is that all you ever say?  Look, I can make this easy, or I can make it hard.  I’d rather go with easy.”  I pulled a wad of fold, counted out two hundred, and threw it on the counter.

“Make it three and I’ll tell all.”

I threw down another hundred.  What the hell, Drax was covering expenses.

“She’s in 417.”

“Thanks.”

“But you’re the second one looking for her tonight.  She’s got company.”

“Company?”

“Yeah, this grrrl.  Totally volcanic weirdo.”

“Volcanic?”  Clearly I wasn’t up on the latest teen lingo.

“Yeah, you know, miss massacre.  She pulled blades on me.”

“And you weren’t fast enough with the cobra?”

“She was faster than you.”

“And you told her where Luna is?”

“Hey, I didn’t want my throat slit.  Like I said, the grrrl’s volcanic.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck me!”  I bolted out of the trailer, bolted up the steel stairs to the fourth level, dashed down the gangway, found 417.  I was out of breath.  No time to think.  I drew my gun, shot the lock and kicked the door in.

Fuck me!

Luna was in the rear of the capsule, back to the wall, shaking and whimpering.  Cuts crisscrossed her face, blood dripped down to her chest and on to the temperfoam mattress.  Facing her was a raven haired grrrl in shiny black latex tight enough to be sprayed on.  She spun around.  Sharp red nightVision eyes.  Perfect figure.  I caught a glimpse of her hands.  Fuck me!  I’d expected a knife artist, not a zKuntin’ Vampire.  Vampires were interrogation specialists: enhanced nerves for speed, retractable razor-sharp fingernails, big into slicing and dicing until their victims talk—or flatline after all their blood’s drained.

“Freeze!” I yelled.

Before I could register what was happening the Vampire pirouetted and sprung at me, instantly closing the three-meter gap between us.  Blood sprayed the wall next to Luna, shooting out of a severed carotid artery.  My reflexes took over.  I pulled the trigger.  I don’t miss.  Two shots.  First one in the mouth.  Instant loss of motor function.  Second one in the forehead.  She was dead before she landed, but not before her fingernails sliced through my coat and cut my forearm.  Axel wasn’t shittin’.  Fucking fast.

The capsule was a mess.  Blood and brains all over the place.  I went up to Luna.  A bloody gurgled last breath, and she was gone.  Fuck me!  The Organitskaya had gotten to her before I had.  I closed her eyelids, threw the bed-sheet over her and walked out to the gangway.  I pulled up Shorty’s contact info and gave him a call.

Before I reached Axel’s office my phone rang.  It was Abdul.

“Lukas, you’ll never believe this one.”

“Try me.”

“That Ritter guy you are looking for is a master hacker.  He did a job for the Organitskaya.  They had him hack a game.”

“Don’t tell me, Avalon Five.”

“If you already know these things, Lukas, why do you bother me?”

“It was a guess.”

“Well you better find him fast.  They sent a Vampire after him to recover a couple million credits he skimmed off the take.”

“It’s too late.”

“So they already got him?”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad for you.  And very stupid of him, if you ask me.”

Yeah, too bad.  I’d never met her, but I’d grown somewhat fond of Luna.  And my first real case was fucked.   And yeah, it was real stupid double-crossing the Organitskaya.

Half an hour later the uniforms had secured the crime scene.  This time two bodies.  And a fucking mess.

“So you found your missing person,” Shorty said.  We stood out in front of the trailer. “Congratulations.  Too bad he’s dead.”  His face kept changing colors in the flashing cop car lights.  He lit a Yeheyuan and offered me the pack.  I took one.

“She’s dead,” I said, “I think that’s what she’d prefer.”

“Yeah, right.  Whatever.  You okay?” he gestured at my arm.  Blood was seeping through a bandage.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  Besides the cobra, Axel had a first aid kit under the counter.  He knew how to use it.  “Any luck finding George?”

“No.  He’s disappeared into thin air.  And I mean that literally.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.  He’s not the first one.  It’s always the same.  The EyeTs swear the CCTV vids aren’t altered.  Forensics insist everything is clean.  There’s no explanation.”

“Well,” I said, “if I were you I’d check for residual signs of geomagnetic activity.”

“What?”

“Just a hunch.”

“You’re shittin’ me, Lukas.”  Shorty looked unconvinced.

“No, I’m not.”

I couldn’t tell Shorty the part about how I’d been in the Unit (that’s classified, even after you quit), and that my team had rescued a hostage, and that we were in a safe house waiting for extraction when he vanished (all Unit ops are classified).  But I figured I could tell him about the disappearance.

“I was in the military…”

“No shit,” Shorty said, “but I bet you weren’t just a common grunt.”

“Yeah, no shit, and no comment.  As I was saying, I was in the military when this weird disappearance happened.  It was late one night at a field HQ.  Suddenly the lights go out and our equipment goes haywire.  It was pitch black for a few seconds, and when the emergency power kicked in we noticed someone was missing.  It was like he’d just vanished into thin air.”

I couldn’t tell Shorty that it was our rescued hostage that had vanished into thin air.  But he had, and that seriously sucked because we looked bad, like we’d screwed up the mission and lost the hostage, and then lied about.  It was a big deal.  When we got back to the base the Intelligence Service gave us the third degree and their eyeTs went over our cam vids and equipment with a fine-tooth comb.  In the end we were cleared, but there was no explanation and there were no clues, except maybe for one oddity.

“The thing is,” I continued, “the eyeTs found traces of geomagnetic activity in the digital devices.  They said it was similar to that caused by a big solar storm.  That was it.  Go figure.  So, if I were you, I’d check the digital devices in George’s flat.”

Shorty seemed lost in thought.  “They were flashing zeroes…” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Look, it’s late and I’ve had a hell of a day,” I said, “I’ll see you around, DS.”  The benny was wearing off, I still felt like I’d been hit by a cement truck, and now I was cut up as well. 

“Yeah, take care, Lukas.”

I took a last drag, tossed my butt and we shook hands.  Not a great ending for my first real case.  I went off to collapse in my clunker.  

“Home,” I said.  The Peugeot pulled away from the kerb and into the street.  I closed my eyes and wondered what the hell I’d tell Drax.