Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 16
Oh fuck. I put the badly rolled gasper to my lips and fired it up.
“Well, he happens to be the big brother of our own hard-hitting news reporter, Dorothy Maquina—who herself was an eyewitness to the terrible carnage you’ve just watched! Over to you, Dorothy.”
Cue a close-up of my sister’s face, in the studio. She looked tired but virtuous—her hair white-blonde now, and her lips a subtle shade of silver—as she described the Deviant attack. It all seemed calculated and rehearsed.
“If it weren’t for my brother Floyd, and the other fine people like him at Management Control Division,” she concluded, “I wouldn’t be here today—and I’m not alone.”
The news swung into more blustery words of wisdom from that Assistant Commissioner I’d never heard of. He lobbed around terms like Seekers and Controllers (the thugs who’d brought me in), and even went so far as to explain (some) of our duties in Deviant Control. He spouted statistics that ‘proved’ our success in the field, praising our actions over the past few years. He spoke as if Management Control Division had always existed, completely ignoring the fact that Controllers had only recently come into being and that Seekers had never been officially acknowledged in the media before.
Now the man was talking me up—intimating in no uncertain terms that, for all intents and purposes, I’d saved the day, that I was a goddamned hero, and more to the point, that my actions justified the continued expansion and increased funding of Management Control Division.
He was eventually replaced by an advert for shaving cream.
So, they’ve gone public. Before the revelations of today, I’d have expected to be dressed-down or worse for getting this kind of exposure. We’d always worked as a covert operation. Don’t get me wrong, the ‘Deviant Menace’ was always hyped in the media but us Seekers were kept nicely under wraps—a well known but unpublicized secret. But now, not only were they talking us up, they were selling us as the brains to the hi-tech, hi-weaponry muscle of the Controllers. And to top it all off, for my own sins, I’d been reinstated and made a bloody hero. I needed another drink.
that sinking feeling
It was late afternoon when I heard a knock. I wasn’t worried (too much) about the paparazzi pestering me—despite the fact that my name was now plastered across tellies and newsfeeds everywhere, the State had its thumb pressed firmly on the media and I’m sure my address was considered confidential. A rogue journalist digging up dirt on me would run the serious risk of getting labeled Dev, and that’s a huge gamble for a fad story.
I opened the door to find Dorothy standing there. Her hair, cherry-red now, was dripping wet, though her make up was, as always, faultless.
“What’re you doing slumming in these parts? Are you okay?”
“I’m alive. Thanks to you.” She leaned against the door frame, distant.
“I didn’t do much.”
“Is now a decent time for you?”
“Sorry, my manners are prob’ly still in my pyjamas—come in.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry ’bout the mess. If I knew you were coming over, I’d have tossed everything out the window. I do have a packet of chocolate teddy bears here, if you’re hungry.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, well—take a seat, hon.” I toss them over to her, then try to tidy up things a bit, which translates to shoving most of the shit under the coffee table and behind the kitchen door.
“How’s your back?”
“Healed up pretty well. I have a nice scar to brag about, shame is it’s only visible when I’m in the nuddy and about-faced.”
“So when are you going to tell me what happened?”
“One day.”
“I’m holding you to that.” She picked up a bottle that had been propped up on the cushion beside her and gave me a look.
“Just a bit of a nightcap.”
“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Is it? I can’t tell the difference these days. It always looks so goddamned gloomy out there.”
“Have you at least got a glass?”
“Somewhere. I didn’t need one.”
“I’m talking about for me.”
“Hang on.”
I head out to the kitchen and rummage through the dishes piled haphazardly in and around the sink. They haven’t been done since Laurel last cleaned up. I find the best of the worst, give it a good rinse, and dry it with a grubby-looking tea towel that’s decorated with Scottish highland tartans.
I happen to glance back into the lounge room and see that Dorothy has fallen asleep on the couch, cradling the open gin on her lap. I go over to her and very softly dry her wet hair with the tea towel. I don’t know if she’d ever forgive herself if she knew the state she was in. Her gold kohled eyelids part a fraction.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t think I can explain it. Everything’s changed, yet it hasn’t at all.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I just don’t know.” The waterworks are starting up.
“It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“Nothing really does, precious. Just ease off on the alcohol, huh?” I pull the bottle of gin from her grasp.
“You’re telling me—?”
“I’m telling you.”
“How do you cope with what you do and what you see and keep yourself above water?”
“I sink more often than I swim, Dot. You know that.”
radio activities
Our old area supervisor, Ophelia Nadel, had been a draconian looking harpy with hawkish features and a powerfully straight posture that put my slouch to shame. Thus, her replacement came as a welcome surprise—Marjorie Saunders was a bit of a looker, meaning this transition to new management wasn’t all bad. Unfortunately, she was also all dolled up with candy-coloured lip-gloss and fuchia eyeshadow. Her curly, bronze-coloured hair had retro puff bangs and an insanely huge magenta bow on top—she looked like she was gift wrapped in the 1980s. She also must’ve marinated herself in perfume, as I was assaulted by the scent of gardenias as soon as I entered her office.
She’d summoned Hank and I in together. While I’d worked with him before, it was never a good sign—almost all Activities were solo flights, and they only paired us up with a wingman if they thought there was a high probability of one of us getting some extra ventilation.
Marjorie sweetly informed us that we’d be heading out to the long cordoned off Richmond District, a derelict region east of the Dome that was next door to Abbotsford, the stomping ground in my recurring dreams. Then she tossed us several pages of smudged faxes and blurred photocopies and casually mentioned that the objective of our Activities was a sizeable group of Devs. The documents were pretty much illegible, and the faxed photographs were so oversaturated with ink they looked more like Rorschach tests than people.
“How many of them, exactly?”
“Well, we don’t really know. Assume at least five.”
Hank and I exchanged glances. Normally, and by normally I mean always, we’d be assigned to take down a single Dev, sometimes two, three at the most (with backup). Five Devs was taking the piss.
“They’re known to be armed,” she said, pouring salt into the wound.
“Shivs or heaters?”
“Knives or guns?” Hank translated for me quickly, as a matter of habit.
“Possibly both.”
“These wouldn’t be related to Floyd’s dynamic duo that did the restaurant gig the other night?”
“Unknown.”
“Alright then. But why don’t they send a team of Controllers out there? They’re better equipped and better trained for this sort of thing, aren’t they? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work nowadays?”
“MCD already sent in a Controller.”
“Only one?”
“That’s what the report says.”
“What went down?”
“We don’t exactly know. We assume he was killed by the Deviants in question. Or he may be captive. Nobody has been out there since the incident. You gentlemen will be our Initial Response Team—it’s your mission to find out what happened, deal with any Deviant threat, and report back on the fate of the Controller.”
“Great.”
She lobbed a photograph onto the table before us. It was a satellite image of Richmond District, though it was creased and had a coffee ring in the top right corner. She tried to clean it off to no effect. The photo was likely outdated as satellites weren’t exactly easy to come by nowadays, but it did serve well enough to map out the area. Marjorie planted her finger on a large building.
“Last contact with the Controller was just before he entered this abandoned department store, here. From his previous reports, we understand at least five Devs were in the area.”
“Christ.”
“Please try not to swear, Mr. Maquina.”
“Sorry—so now they have his weapons as well, correct?”
“Correct.” Marjorie looked down at her paperwork. “He was armed with an assault rifle with armour-piercing rounds, a semi-automatic double-barreled MCD99 pistol, and a quad-fire riot shotgun.”
“Christ.” This time it was Hank. Marjorie must have been playing favourites, because she let him slide. Hank looked pissed off. Me, I didn’t even know what a quad-fire riot shotgun looked like.
“He was also equipped with a nightscope, a silencer for the pistol, some breaching explosives, smoke and flash grenades. All standard issue.”
“Do they haul around a kitchen sink as well?”
“If you’ll please let me finish—they may also have his armour, though that would be crippled as many of its advanced functions, such as the motion detection system built into the visor, are keyed to the specific user. It would still serve as basic protection from small arms, though.”
“Shit,” Hank said. “Like our guns. How much ammo was he carrying?”
“Enough.”
“Okay, can you answer me one question?”
“If it’s appropriate, I’ll certainly try.”
“Well, you’re telling us that we have at least five Devs on the loose who were already capable of getting the jump on a Controller—and now this mob is toting Controller weapons. My point: doesn’t that at least warrant a rather large posse of heavily-armed Controllers, instead of two relatively ill-equipped and somewhat hapless Seekers?”
“Speak for yourself,” Hank interrupted, “I’ve still got some hap left in this old body.”
“Please, let’s try to stay focused. While it’s true that your training doesn’t match that undertaken by Controllers, you gentlemen do have far more field experience at this point in time. What’s more, it’s also felt that you would be a better representative of the Division.”
“Representative? For what?” Hank seemed confused.
I ignored this new tidbit, still focused on our predicament. “Okay, then how about MCD at least sending some Controllers with us for support? We provide the know how, they provide the fodder.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t an option. However—you will in fact be accompanied on this Activities for public relations purposes.”
“Public relations?” Hank echoed, a sense of growing unease in his voice.
“Meaning—?”
“Meaning that you’ll be accompanied by embedded journalists, serving as their escort in addition to your aforementioned mission critical tasks. Their safety is your responsibility.”
“Journalists? Seeker Branch is doing tour groups now? That’d be about right.” Hank had lost any cool he had.
“No. What I’m saying is that you’ll have an investigative reporter and his cameraman along for the ride.” Marjorie kept her voice as bubbly as ever.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“It all makes sense. You want the people to see ol’ charming Floyd here instead of the Darth Vader clones you’re replacing us with. And you wanna get me to play his trusty fat-boy sidekick, just for the laughs, right? Don’t you get it, yet, Floyd? We get to be Batman and Robin, just so the viewers at home can get all warm and fuzzy.”
“Now, then. Activities will commence in one hour, so please work together to get acquainted with the case. All the available information is in your hands. You will be expected at the Activities Centre at eight thirty on the dot. Do you have any more questions?”
“Does it really matter?”
Hank was driving again. The streets are vacant, it’s past curfew, and the squeaky sounds of the windscreen wipers are giving me a headache. There’s a leak on the passenger side and I’ve manoeuvred my legs into an uncomfortable position so they don’t get wet. I’m sitting on a folded towel to prevent an even worse situation.
“Y’know, I got myself a theory, buddy-boy. You’re a media celeb now, right? And Dev-hunting is a ratings-puller. Before long you’re gonna have a show on prime time. You know, one of them reality things: Floyd Maquina—Dev Hunter.”
“The Running Man. Check.”
“Whatever. Mock me all you like. When all’s said and done, we’re probably going to get our arses kicked tonight in front of a non-existent studio audience. So I just wanna say thanks, mate, in advance.”
“Look, I didn’t ask for this favour. I’d as soon be home to catch tonight’s screening of Fear in the Night on the telly while mixing together a batch of martinis.”
“Say, that’s not a bad name for your reality show. By the way, do you keep paper cocktail umbrellas at your place?”
I look over at Hank—I really have no idea where this is going. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“Gotta have those tiny umbrellas. They add class.”
“You worry me sometimes, you big lug.”
“By the by, I’ve been meaning to tell you that you came across well in that news segment they had on you.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Hey, maybe I can hang onto your coattails. Sidekick is a decent career option. Like I was saying during the briefing, Batman always needs a Robin.”
“Robin was killed off.”
“Seriously? By who? The Joker?”
“Yup.”
“Fine, do you have a better sidekick for me to aim for?”
“Movies count? Or just comics?”
“Either.”
“That’s easy then. Don Gordon to Steve McQueen in Bullitt. Now there’s an infinitely underrated sidekick.”
“Does he live?”
“Yep.”
“Is he skinny?”
“Very.”
“He’s the man, then. I have to have some inspiring role models in my life. Being fat just isn’t pretty.”
We drive in silence for awhile, but I can tell that Hank is mulling something over. We stop at a red light, which is pretty pointless when you consider that there’s no traffic allowed on the streets at this time of night. I open the window just a fraction to toss the cigarette out then glance over at Hank. He looks unsettled.
“What’s going on, Hank?”
“The Devs they’ve assigned us—they took out a fucking Controller.”
“Meh. Sounds lightweight to me. Blow on the bastards and they’ll fall over.”
Hank laughs, the comment having visibly lightened his mood. “Yeah, I mean the wanker probably moved like molasses, what with all that body-armour they’re tucked up in.”
We swung around the corner, jumping a curb in the process, and I was glad to see Hank back in reckless-driving-mode. At his best the man made me fear for my life—but at least it meant that his mind was on the job. I looked behind us and happened to notice a bag of Hylax Fresh & Tidy on the backseat.
“Kitty litter?”
“Kitty litter.”
“I thought you hated cats.”
“Not true. Besides, someone had to take in Laurel’s cat.”
“Shit—!“
“Relax, relax. He’s fine.”
“When? How?”
“I worried you’d be all over the shop, so I headed over to her place the day after the shit hit the fan. I let myself in and absconded with the critter.”
“Damn. It should’ve been me to think of that.”
“You were busy. She’d understand that.”
“So Thursby’s okay?”
“Just dandy.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, mate.”
jack your kitsch up
Up ahead, between enormous signs that read ‘Department S’ and ‘Department H’—who knew what those were—was the police checkpoint for entry into Richmond District. There was a news van parked beside the checkpoint and as we pulled up a girl ran over in a raincoat and hat. I wound down my window just enough to see her face properly.
“Where’ve you been? You’re late! The boss is furious!” The poor kid looked like she was having a panic attack.
“Chill out, lassie,” Hank said to her, over my shoulder. “We’re here now. Us artists aren’t good with schedules.” She just stared at him. Hank and I climbed out of the car and splashed behind the skirt to the back of the van. She knocked, the doors flew open, and we all climbed in.
As I adjusted to the light, I saw a middle-aged man enthroned upon a leather-bound automatic massage chair, in the centre of an array of computer consoles and camera gear. He had a handlebar moustache and silver sideburns, every bit the classic prima donna senior reporter. A young camera operator hid in the corner, fiddling with his gear. He wore a massive white down jacket with the block letters ITC—Dorothy’s network—emblazoned across the back.
“Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Montgomery Berman.” He paused for effect, then waved briefly towards the kid with the cameras. “This is Stew Sullivan, my camera operator. Annabelle I believe you’ve met.”
