Night Call Page 9

  “This is concerning, Detective Roche. Keeping this volume of parts for the purpose of selling them illegally could be incriminating. I do not believe anyone in the police force could afford a licence to sell Automatic parts.”

  “Right you are, Allen,” I responded, collecting all of the papers for later reading. I skimmed through some of the requisition orders, and two things jumped out at me: the price and the supply. Stern was selling these parts for pennies compared to what the Iron Hands or GE was selling them for, and he had a lot of parts. There were far more parts listed on these sheets than were in this room.

  Racketeers never keep all their stock in one place, just like a general never keeps an army in a single camp.

  I turned and went back through the apartment’s main area, entered the kitchen, and tore open the cupboard. I pushed the glasses and plates aside and noticed that the back of the cupboard wasn’t flush with the wall. I grabbed my revolver, held it like a club, and hammered the wooden boards. Wires, connectors, motors, and servos fell out onto the countertop. Several hundred dollars’ worth of parts, at least, were stuffed behind one of the panels. And that was just one cupboard out of at least a half dozen.

  Next, the couch. I tossed the cushions aside. Built into the wooden base of the couch were larger Automatic limbs and chassis. The cushions, too, were stuffed with silica beads and oil.

  In the bathroom, behind the painkillers and blood thinners, were unmarked bottles. I opened one and sniffed — the scent of heavy lubricant filled my nostrils. This entire apartment was a racketeer’s den, and I’d have bet any money that this wasn’t the only place he owned off the books.

  I headed outside to speak to the landlady. She looked startled at my appearance. The sweat pouring from my forehead and the manic look in my eyes would have been enough to throw her. “How often does he pay rent? Do people come in to see him for repairs? Do you ever get complaints about maintenance issues?”

  She stuttered as she replied. “He … he’s always p-paid in advance. Never late or even on time — always early. I’ve seen quite a few people going to and fro on a monthly basis. I just assumed he had everything taken care of.”

  This was the perfect cover, the perfect location, the perfect unassuming landlady. If his other apartments were anything like this one, he was a big enough force in the market to begin to rival the Iron Hands. That was bad for everyone, not just him.

  I almost slammed the door on her as I turned to see Allen sifting through the parts that had been strewn about by my ransacking. I grabbed its arm and brought it outside, pushing it in front of me to explain to the landlady what we’d found. She was shocked, and while Allen spent the next few minutes trying to calm her down, I went back inside the apartment. At the far end of the living area, I stepped out onto a small balcony, into the early morning air.

  The lights hanging on the Plate were starting to brighten, though the Lower City wouldn’t see their full power until around eight a.m.

  This building was on 23rd Street, near the corner of 9th Avenue. The balcony offered a clear view of downtown and the heart of the Lower City. There were Packards and Fords everywhere below, clogging up a four-lane street even this early in the morning. It made you wonder how many people could really afford a car. Then again, swapping out the gasoline for Fuel Gel was cheaper than fixing a car. That also explained why they all looked half-rusted and ready to fall apart. The only upside to all the traffic was the lack of exhaust. It actually smelled half-decent up here.

  The rising sun illuminated the larger buildings in front of me with a golden glow, most dramatically GE and the Empire. The street would be basked in sunlight only for another hour or so before the light ascended to the Plate. Another day in the hidden metropolis. I lit a dart, trying to calm myself. Mixing coffee, alcohol, and tobacco always made me go into a frenzy. Hell, what with the mounting stress since our discovery, it almost felt like the good old days again. It was a shame that he was gone.

  That it was gone.

  Then again, with all the evidence piling up, I wasn’t so sure it really was dead.

  Allen joined me on the small balcony.

  “I’ve coordinated Stern’s arrest. The landlady is willing to co-operate with us to prevent Stern from learning of our presence until we can apprehend him. She’ll clean up the area, lock the door, and try to be as convincing as possible.”

  “Good. Glad I had you here to help. He’ll notice something is up eventually, and when he’s panicking, that’ll give us an opportunity to grab him. He won’t be very alert while he’s busy packing up to skip town.”

  “I suppose it is a happy accident, then.” Allen stood silently, watching the view with me.

  Yeah, the good old days, I thought. Maybe Allen and I would have some. If I decided to keep it, that was.

  “Stakeout, then?” I asked, dropping the cigarette butt onto the city below.

  “Of course. On our drive over here, I noted several locations from which we could see him approaching the building. Our best bet for a clear view of his vehicle is across the street, three buildings to the west. It’s a small restaurant that houses a speakeasy. Its windows face the street, giving us an excellent view of the entrance to both this building and the garage. I have his vehicle’s make and model, as well as his licence plate number here.”

  Allen passed me a sheet of paper. There were notes scrawled by the woman and fine square letters and numbers where Allen had rewritten them. Both looked like gibberish to me, though in a few hours I’d surely be sober enough to decipher them.

  “How do you know there’s a speakeasy underneath?”

  “The door has been refurbished and reinstalled multiple times, after many raids. Paint can only hide so much.”

  “Huh.” I nodded in affirmation. “How long will Stern be?”

  “Several hours at least. He returns here two or three times per week, she says, depending on circumstances. She mentioned that he has business outside the city and often comes back on Wednesdays, so we are quite fortunate things have lined up so well. We have ample time to prepare for our encounter.”

  “Perfect. Let’s head to the joint.”

  Allen nodded and followed me out of the apartment into the hall, now devoid of life except for me. And maybe Allen, depending on what one considered to be life.

  A stakeout waiting for the Tinkerman who had jerry-rigged the Red-eye to do the job. But who was he? Some high-ranking undercover FBI agent? Or some crazy scientist with delusions of grandeur? Throw in the racketeering charges we’d be hitting Stern with, and my partner being an Automatic who’d eaten alongside me an hour ago, and so far this had been one hell of a week. My head was spinning from everything that had happened, and yet it was still a nice change of pace from being chased by armed gunmen. Which reminded me: after this little stakeout, I had a stop to make.

  “Since we’re going to a speakeasy, Allen, do you play darts?”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SPEAKEASY ALLEN AND I set up in was clear for most of the day. The sun shone high above the Plate while the fluorescent bulbs below tried desperately to imitate it. The sun appeared once more at the horizon just before the bulbs went out. I spent most of the day staring out the window, drifting in and out of sleep more than once due to the softness of the leather seats. I should have been revelling in this relaxation; I suspected that there wouldn’t be many more chances to do so during this case.

  Allen was pacing back and forth, thousands of thoughts running through that metal brain. I decided to hold off on alcohol — for now, at least — as the Irish coffee had done enough to turn me off the stuff for a while. Now all we had to do was wait — the one part of my job I hated. At least some of the grub here was tolerable. We had the place to ourselves until around six in the evening, when the day-shift crowd would begin to shuffle in.

  Evening turned to night, the bulbs of the Plate shut off, and nightlife took over once more, the hustle of the day — men and women and machines working to a
monotonous drumbeat — replaced by the business of the night. The city’s malicious denizens began creeping up from gutters. The streets were once again alive with people whose business was to end lives or trade in them.

  The speakeasy began to get packed. Thank goodness Allen had already laid claim to the dartboard. The barkeep hated taking it out during evening, as he said dartboards had been stolen more times than he could remember.

  Most patrons kept quiet. Others joked and yelled, laughing at other people or maybe themselves. It all became white noise after a while. That was what most people become.

  Stern was out of the city by the looks of it. No car matching the description of his yellow Duesy had shown up anywhere near the apartment building. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen a single Duesy since just after the War. Surprising that just driving that ritzy thing around hadn’t tipped anyone off about his business ventures.

  I let Allen take the first crack at the board, since I was sure it would show me up. Turned out the metal man was less perfect than I thought it’d be. It missed the bull’s eye twice, hitting the black eighteen and white eleven. The third dart missed the board and stuck to the wooden wall it was hanging on.

  “Little rusty, Allen?” I grinned and picked up three of my own darts, taking position in front of the board.

  “Perhaps my parts are beginning to degrade. This may be cause for concern.”

  “No, no, it’s an expression, Allen. You aren’t really one for jokes, are you?”

  “Humour is an interesting capability you have and share with other humans, and possibly some other Automatics, though I do not see much use for it.”

  I just shook my head. Allen would get it eventually. Maybe.

  It took its darts down and threw them on the table next to the two leather chairs we had occupied for the past half day. I placed my left hand on my back and aimed with my right, bringing the dart level to my eye. I tossed it at the inner red seven, and the second landed in the green just millimeters from the bull’s eye.

  “Your chances of hitting the bull’s eye with your skill and accuracy level are quite improbable,” Allen chirped behind me as it lowered itself onto one of the leather chairs.

  “With this hand, maybe.” I switched and brought my right hand to my back, flexing my left as I tossed the small dart at the board, clipping my other dart as it pinned in the direct centre of the board. I turned to sit down beside Allen, smiling. It felt good to be winning. It felt good just to be playing.

  “You’re ambidextrous.”

  “Yes, thought that was obvious from just now.”

  “I knew several days prior, actually.”

  I chuckled — couldn’t help it — and turned to look at it. “By all means, tell me how. We have the time. Did you maybe see me pick myself up off a chair with my left hand one time and my right the other? Or maybe I grabbed Jaeger with my right hand and then held him with my left.”

  “Nothing so benign as to be a matter of convenience for you. Rather, I read it in your file.”

  “Oh.” I felt stupid after that little oversight. Allen had said it knew several days ago, and it had been around me for less than twenty-four hours. I let way too many things fly over my head to be called a competent detective. I wondered what else it might have said that I’d overlooked.

  “But, if you would prefer an observation, it is apparent from the ink on your left hand, as well as the condition of your nails.”

  “Nails?” I had to sit and think. I had no idea how either of those things would give Allen clues.

  “Yes. On your right hand.”

  “Okay, spit it out.”

  “I do not have saliva.”

  “Shut up and talk, Allen!” Christ, robots could patter on. It could probably deduce things about my sex life from the way I cut bread.

  “The ink on your left hand shows you are more comfortable writing with that hand, smudging the ink on the paper as you write. As well, there is the staining of sealant on the bottom of your thumb. When you drive, you steer with your left hand, specifically with only your thumb, during leisurely drives. This means that one particular spot on the steering wheel is worn away faster. You often repair it with sealant.”

  “And the nails?”

  “You’re more comfortable holding a weapon in your right hand. You’ve chipped and filed down the nails on several of your fingers as you have the nervous habit of spinning the barrel of your Diamondback revolver — which is still illegal, I might add. You stop it with friction from the fingers of that same hand, leading to your nails being damaged from the action.”

  Well, it wasn’t wrong.

  “So, this is what my entire life will be like partnered with you? That is, if I agree to keep you around beyond this case. Remember that the G-men are the only reason you’re still here with me.”

  “What would you have me do instead?”

  “How about you stop talking and start conversing? That would be a great help to our little … relationship.”

  Allen was silent, either processing what I’d said or agreeably keeping quiet for once.

  “I have a few things I’d like to converse about,” I continued. “It’ll help you seem more natural and less migraine-inducing.”

  “All right, Detective. By all means, lead the conversation.”

  It was dangerously close to getting on my nerves. It stared at me like a lost child, though — it wasn’t being sarcastic. Hell, it probably didn’t know how to be sarcastic.

  “Okay. First question: At the diner, did you eat?”

  “Yes. But, a question for you, Detective: Do you have a deduction or theory in regards to that fact?” Allen had stood up again and grabbed its darts from the table. Nothing about it made much sense anymore.

  “Honestly, I got no fucking clue. You’re a machine, an Automatic. You should be able to drink, but not eat. Automatics enjoy the bottle now and then, but you’re not supposed to sleep or think or do most of what humans can.”

  “I am not an Automatic. I may have a mechanical exterior and interior — the latter is questionable, though — but I am far from one of the simple, mundane machines you’re accustomed to.”

  Now things were getting interesting. That was a bold statement coming from a metal man.

  “Want to run that by me again?”

  “Although I am contained within a frame similar to other models, I am not an Automatic.”

  “I’m inclined to believe you, but — as with anything — I need proof.”

  “Were my actions at the diner, as well as my abductive reasoning at Jaeger’s shop, not enough proof for you?”

  It had me at a loss. It was indeed something to think about. But I was a skeptic. Always would be.

  “Okay, fair enough. Then please, explain to me how you’re able to accomplish such things.”

  “I can consume basic meals to regain expended energy. I have a recharging mechanism similar to that of human processes, though the energy can be stored in small batteries for later use.”

  “But you don’t ever go to the pisser. At least, not that I’ve seen.”

  “I can expend my waste products as harmless gases. It did take some time for my designers to find a way to convert urea into a non-toxic, inert product. As well, the issue of defecation and hemoglobin removal has been remedied by the lack of hemoglobin in my system.”

  I scrunched up my nose, realizing that I’d been inhaling its waste ever since we met. But I decided to strike that from my memory, and fast. “For thinking and everything, most Automatics have a certain line that they can’t cross. Most can’t deduce a thing, even if a crook were standing in front of it, with a murder weapon in their hand and a body on the ground. ‘Semiself-awareness,’ they call it. So you’re fully self-aware, then?”

  “I do not have a Neural-Interface, as Automatics have. Instead, I have a synthetic brain similar to yours, though its structure allows it an edge in processing time, reaction speed, and learning capability. Automatics are limited
by Green-eye protocols. I do not have such protocols, as I lack said Neural-Interface.”

  “Well, this is some interesting stuff indeed.” I felt like I needed a drink to settle my mind after all this. So there weren’t any Automatics in the Force after all, since Allen wasn’t an Automatic. Not technically.

  “Are you … concerned, Detective?”

  “A smidge, but not enough to pull my gun on you. If I ever see you murder someone of your own free will, with your eyes still blue, that’s when things will get scary for me.” I stood and pulled my darts out of the board, then sat back down.

  “I assure you, Detective Roche, I do not plan on engaging in any gunfights with humans, and I’m quite adamant that I won’t be taking any lives in my career as a police officer.”

  “You say that now …” I trailed off, thinking back to when I had been a newbie on the Force. I’d thought my killing days were done after the War. How wrong I’d been. “Well, go ahead. Show me what you can do.”

  This time, Allen stood in a similar stance to mine, rather than its previous rigid pose. It held a dart between each of its fingers, its thumb curled back to give it some measure of control. With three quick flicks of the wrist, each dart escaped its grasp, flying to the board, and smacking into the green around the bull’s eye, almost perfectly spaced.

  “Damn, pretty good shot.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “So … if you aren’t an Automatic, what can I call you? What do you consider yourself? Not human, I hope.”

  “Of course not, Detective. The title we gave ourselves is Synthians. The synthetic men, or women, in some cases, as —”

  I stopped it midsentence. “‘Title that we gave ourselves’? We?” That was one hell of a bomb to drop. Hopefully no one was eavesdropping on our conversation.